


Forty-Three Hours

by lowkey_avenger



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gwen is dead, M/M, Slow Burn, but I'm bad at writing violence so don't expect a lot, road trip au, some violence, sorry friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-05-16 19:30:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14817506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowkey_avenger/pseuds/lowkey_avenger
Summary: Peter Parker isn't going through a midlife crisis. Everyone goes through a phase of mental panic after graduating college. Right? Probably. It doesn't matter. Spider-Man doesn't get to have midlife crises. He has a job to do.If it happens to be a job crossing the country in a bulletproof SUV with a crazy mercenary to deliver a totally-not-suspicious stack of files, then so be it. It's not a crazy job. This isn't a midlife crisis. He's fine. Everything's fine. He's survived worse, he can survive this.It's only a forty-three hour drive.





	1. Hour One

**Author's Note:**

> hey friends! guess who's back?
> 
> hopefully this won't be as much of a train wreck as last time lmao
> 
> I have little to no plan for this, so chances are we're already screwed. who's ready for some angst and fluff and a whole lot of butt jokes? I know I am!
> 
> (also, note, Peter just graduated from COLLEGE, not high school. he's not barely eighteen I don't roll that way)

It was...underwhelming, to say the least. 

Some part of Peter Parker had always just thought it would be more exciting. Everyone made it seem like such a big deal. Like one special ceremony would make everything different. It was supposed to be one of the most critical moments of his life, and yet, he found himself just...not caring.

He probably should care. He really should care more than this. He probably should have spent more than just a half hour at a slightly-shabby Mexican restaurant celebrating with Aunt May. And yet, that’s all he did, and he doesn’t want to do anything else. 

Four years, thousands of dollars, dozens of finals, and he hadn’t even spent an entire class period celebrating surviving it.

Instead, he had smiled when he’d been handed his degree, smiled for the pictures, smiled May had congratulated him, and smiled again as he’d politely declined to have a party, and then he’d immediately gone home, changed, and swung out to his favorite spot in the entire city. 

Alone.

Now, it was about two in the morning. He’d been here for about an hour. He had stopped one mugging while he’d been here, but that had only taken about fifteen minutes from start to finish, and he’d come right back when the cops had picked the guy up.

That fight had arguably been the most energetic Peter had been all day.

He sighed, leaning back on his hands and looking out at the city. Despite the fact that he could hear three sirens behind him, everything smelled vaguely of piss, and he could see an old man in his ninety-ninth birthday suit strolling around in his apartment with the blinds open to his left, this was the most peaceful spot in the city for Peter. He was just high enough to see the tops of all the best buildings, but low enough to hear wrongdoings and feel connected to the streets below. That, and the birds tended to shit on the next building over thanks to the old lady who fed them.

He’d taken Gwen here, way back when.

“This is incredible. Wait, are we trespassing?” she’d asked, clinging to him.

He’d laughed. “If we are, they can take it up with Spider-Man.”

She’d rolled her eyes. “What would you do, show up to court with a mask?”

“Obviously. They’d be taking Spider-Man to court, not Peter Parker.”

“Who would you have representing you? Iron Man?”

“Nah, he’s too rich for that. I’d have you do it.”

She’d frowned. “I’m not a lawyer.”

“You totally could be by the time they get to my case. All you’d have to do is graduate in like, ten years.”

Peter looked over to the spot they’d been standing, six years ago. He should have taken her here again. She’d loved it. She’d loved it because  _ he  _ loved it.

It wasn’t the same without her.

He sighed, looking back to the street. 

Some part of him knew why he wasn’t excited to graduate. The other part just didn’t want to admit it. 

Suddenly, a scream rose up from a street to his right. Peter’s head snapped up; he adjusted his mask and swung down, heading for the sound. He blocked the rest of his day from his mind; this was Spider-Man’s time, not Peter’s. Another scream rose up; he pushed himself faster, using his spider-sense as a guide.

Soon, he found the source: another mugger, targeting a young blonde girl who was probably only two or three years younger than Spider-Man. The mugger had a bandana tied around his face and was using a pocket knife to get her to give up her wallet.

Silently, he landed on the brick wall behind the criminal. The girl caught his eye; he put a finger to his lips.

“Gimme your wallet!” the man yelled, shoving the knife in her direction.

She shrieked and jumped backwards. Peter used the noise to cover up the sound of him jumping from the wall to the ground. “Aw, now that’s just not nice.”

The man whirled around, panicked eyes looking Spider-Man up and down. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Who–who  _ am  _ I? Have you really never heard of me?” Spider-Man put his hands on his hips, mocking offense. “The uneducated youth today, I swear.”

“Look, I don’t care what game you’re playing,” the man gestured at his suit, “this ain’t your fight. Get out of here.”

“It is, actually. I’m your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, and I’m gonna kick your ass into next Tuesday.”

“Wha–?” the man started, but didn’t get to finish.

Spider-Man shot a web out at the knife, yanking it out of the man’s hands and sending it flying down the alley behind them. He swung his other hand up and around, knocking the guy in the head and smacking him into the wall. The girl took the opportunity and ran off.

“I mean, seriously man,” Spider-Man said as the guy tried to get back up,  “this is just sad. A knife to a spider-sense fight? Not a chance.”

The guy groaned and tried to take a swing at Spider-Man, who sighed, dodged, and sent the other man flying into the wall again with his momentum. “This is getting sadder. I’m just gonna call the police and get this over with.”

Spider-Man webbed the guy’s arm to the wall, followed by his feet, other arm, and mouth, just to give him some quiet. He used his other hand to dial the police.

Just as he was hanging up, something felt...off. The slightest prickle on the back of his neck. Not quite off enough to set off his spider-sense, but something just strange enough to–

“YIPPEE-KAY-YAY, MOTHERFUCKER!” someone suddenly shouted as Spider-Man turned around, and a foot  _ slammed  _ into his chest and sent him flying. He skidded across the pavement and scrambled to get back on his feet,  _ extremely  _ disoriented.

When he got his footing, he looked up to see what appeared to be a heavily-armed knockoff Spider-Man cutting his thief loose. The guy ran off into the night.

“Hey, hey! What are you doing?” Spider-Man shouted.

In a flash, the knockoff pulled out a gun and aimed it between Spider-Man’s eyes. Spider-Man froze. “Hey yourself, Mr. Bad Guy. You were beating up that guy! That’s bad.”

“He tried to mug someone!”

The guy paused. He tilted his head, looked back, then holstered his gun. “Well, fuck. Where’d he go?”

“I’d know if you hadn’t  _ let him go! _ ” Spider-Man snapped. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

The man gasped and held a hand to his chest, offended. “Who am I? Who am  _ I? _ Have you not  _ heard _ of me? Fuckin’ kids these days, I swear.”

Peter had the weirdest moment of dejá vu. 

The man continued, undeterred. “I’m the merc with a mouth. The murder minus the motive. The one. The only…” he trailed off, then drummed on his thighs. “Deadpool!” he finished, striking a slightly-sexual pose.

Spider-Man raised a  _ very  _ suspicious eyebrow. He’d heard that name before, he just couldn’t place where. “Merc? As in mercenary?”

Deadpool nodded, excited. “Yep! The very, very best!”

Spider-Man looked him up and down, noting the extremely excessive number of weapons. “What exactly are you doing here?”

“I’m here for a job, obviously. I’m the very best. You hiring any sidekicks?”

Spider-Man rolled his eyes. “Not a chance. And there’s not a chance you’ll be getting paid tonight, either.”

Deadpool frowned. “Well, that’s no fun. I don’t wanna kill anybody.”

“What? You’re a mercenary.”

“Yeah, but not in  _ New York City.  _ The Avengers get too much on my ass when I do shit here–and  _ not  _ in the good way.”

Spider-Man froze.  _ That’s  _ where he knew the name “Deadpool”. Iron Man had complained about him before. 

_ He can’t be killed. Whenever he gets jobs in New York we just have to let SHIELD deal with him. He’s too dangerous and time-consuming for the Avengers to deal with every time. _

Spider-Man debated what to do. He had a dangerous–and very loud–criminal on his hands, and this was a rare occasion where Spider-Man couldn’t go drop him off at Avengers Tower and call it a day. Iron Man and the others  _ hated  _ this guy. 

Deadpool cocked his head to the side. “Spider-Man? You okay over there?”

Spider-Man frowned. “How do you know my name?”

“Everyone knows you. Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man. You also have a spider on your chest, so it probably wouldn’t be all that hard to guess.” Deadpool pointed.

Spider-Man looked down at his chest. “Right.”

Deadpool looked down at his watch. “Oh my god, I’m gonna be late! Sorry Spidey, gotta go!” he exclaimed, then started to run off.

Spider-Man reacted immediately, shooting two webs and sticking Deadpool’s feet to the ground. The man stumbled and nearly toppled over, but he kept his balance and the webs held. 

Deadpool  _ screamed.  _

“Why are you screaming?” Spider-Man yelled, waving his hands at the other man and trying to quiet him.

“OH MY GOD, SPIDER-MAN JUST SHOT ME WITH HIS STICKY WHITE STUFF!” Deadpool yelled.

“Will you be  _ quiet?  _ It’s just webbing! It won’t hurt–”

“THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE.”

Spider-Man sighed. He was one of  _ those  _ guys. “C’mon, man. It’s webbing.”

Deadpool twisted from his spot to look at him. “Best day of my life, Spidey. Best. Day.”

Spider-Man figured the best thing to do was just ignore it. He was starting to see why the Avengers hated dealing with him. He walked around to Deadpool’s front. “What are you going to be late for?”

Deadpool gasped. “Oh my god, I’m gonna be late!” he said again, then aimed to grab something from his belt. 

Spider-Man shot another web, sticking his hand to his belt. “Answer the question, Deadpool.”

“As much as I love your sticky white stuff, I kinda need to go, Spidey.”

“Answer the question.” Spider-Man ordered, crossing his arms and taking a step closer.

Deadpool narrowed his eyes at him, and the air between them suddenly felt heavier. “I’ll answer what I fuckin’ want to, Spidey.”

“You’re the one stuck to the street, Deadpool.” Spider-Man said, and Deadpool snorted. Spider-Man’s spider-senses suddenly put him on edge.

In a flash, Deadpool’s free hand whipped around, cutting his webbed hand free and flinging the knife in Spider-Man’s direction. On instinct, Spider-Man caught it and whipped it back. Deadpool tried to dodge it, but his feet were still stuck.

It hit Deadpool in the center of his chest, sinking in with a horrible sound. 

They both froze, Spider-Man staring at the knife in Deadpool’s chest and feeling his heart rate skyrocket. He heard the sound of the knife over and over in his head, until he wasn’t hearing the knife anymore, and he wasn’t looking at Deadpool anymore, he was seeing someone younger, blonder, someone falling–

_ He can’t die. He can’t die. He can’t die. Please don’t die. Please don’t– _

Deadpool grunted, grabbed the knife, and yanked it out. He dangled it in front of his face, made a disgusted noise, then chucked it over Spider-Man’s head deeper into the alley. 

“Ow.”

Spider-Man stared at the hole in Deadpool’s suit, watching in disbelief as the wound slowly stopped bleeding and healed itself. It took barely a minute, and Deadpool, to Spider-Man’s surprise, stayed still the entire time. 

“Uh, Spidey? You alright over there?” Deadpool asked,  _ completely fine. _

“How–how are you okay? How–what–how is that  _ possible?  _ You should be  _ dead! _ ” Spider-Man exclaimed, moving into Deadpool’s space and brushing his fingers over the tear in the fabric. It was bloodstained and frayed, but the skin underneath was fine.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There wasn’t a stab wound, but the skin was sort of...deformed. Like the wound had already scarred.

Deadpool poked him on the shoulder. Spider-Man snapped out of it, dropping his hand and looking up. 

“It’s fine, Spidey. Happens all the time. We’re all good!” Deadpool said, putting a hand on Spider-Man’s shoulder.

“But– _ how? _ ”

Deadpool shrugged. “I’m Deadpool, baby. I heal from anything. Makes me best in the business. This was nothin’. Do you know how many times I’ve been shot in the head?”

“Doesn’t that hurt?” Spider-Man asked, horrified. “Didn’t  _ this  _ hurt?” he gestured at the tear.

“It  _ did,  _ but it doesn’t anymore. Nice reflexes, by the way.”

“Comes with the spider-senses.” Spider-Man mumbled. “Are you  _ sure  _ you’re not dead?”

Deadpool laughed, seeming slightly confused. “Seeing how this is the most action I’ve gotten in a while, I may have gone to heaven. Not sure.”

“What?”

Deadpool gestured to the space between them. He gestured to the  _ very small _ space between them. Spider-Man’s face was still only inches from Deadpool’s.

Spider-Man stepped back. “Right. Sorry.”

“Aw no, come back!” Deadpool whined, reaching out for him and nearly falling over. He made a frustrated noise and tried to yank his feet off the ground. “Fucking–white sticky stuff–RELEASE ME!” he shouted before falling over.

Spider-Man laughed, then moved and helped him up. “It dissolves after a few hours. You’ll be fine.”

Deadpool gasped. “A few  _ hours?  _ I’ve got places to be, Spidey!” he yelled, before he got a new knife and started to cut himself loose.

Spider-Man blinked. He’d forgotten about that part. “Wait, where are you going?”

“I’m late for my new gig!”

“Which is?”

“I’m a  _ bodyguard! _ ” Deadpool exclaimed.

Spider-Man frowned. “Aren’t you a mercenary?”

“Among other things.”

“So you’re  _ not  _ in New York to kill anyone?”

“Not this time.” Deadpool said, reholstering his knife and taking a few test steps.

Spider-Man just decided to ignore the other half of that thought. “Right.”

“Don’t think about it too hard, you’ll hurt your good guy brain.We should hang out again soon. Oh, maybe you can help me on my job! You protect people, right?”

“Not for money.” Spider-Man answered, though some part of him wondered how well protecting someone could pay if  _ Deadpool  _ was doing it. 

“Right, well, if you change your mind, I’ll find you. See you later, Spidey!” Deadpool waved. He paused, nodded, then took off running away from Spider-Man. He made it to the street, looked frantically from side to side, decided left was better, and he was gone.

Spider-Man stood alone for a minute, trying to process everything that had just happened. He scrubbed a hand over his face, laughed, and turned around, heading back towards his favorite roof.

Suddenly, Spider-Man’s foot hit something in the alley, making it skid a couple feet away. He paused, looking down at it.

A knife.

Spider-Man bent down and picked it up, looking it over. It was a surprisingly fancy knife, well-made and ornate. It had an engraved “DP” on the bottom. It was Deadpool’s. Spider-Man was surprised he had just thrown it away; it looked expensive.

It was covered in blood, but it felt wrong to just leave it.

Making an only slightly-disgusted face, Spider-Man wiped it off as best he could with an old shirt in the alley. After he deemed it clean enough, he folded the blade away, tucked the knife into his sleeve, and webbed his way back to his spot. 

He sat down, let his legs dangle off the edge, and pulled out his phone. He dialed and held the phone between his ear and shoulder as he pulled the knife back out, flipping it in his hand. Using his other hand, he rolled his mask up to his nose, taking a deep breath of fresh air.

The phone rang three times before someone answered. “Tony Stark speaking.”

“Hey, Tony. It’s Peter.”

“I know, kid. Caller ID. Congrats on the graduation, by the way. What’s up?”

Despite the fact that he was on the phone, Peter still found himself plastering on the fake smile he’d been using all day. “Thanks, Tony. So, I just met Deadpool.”

“No prob–you  _ what?”  _ Tony yelled into his phone, making Peter wince. “He’s back in New York?”

“Yeah, he said it was for some protection job.”

Tony paused. “He doesn’t  _ protect  _ people. Wait, said? Did you let him go?”

Peter winced again. “...No?”

“PETER.”

“He said it was for a protection job! And I kinda stabbed him and felt bad about it.” Peter said, looking down at the knife again.

As he looked, he noticed a new design in the knife he hadn’t down in the alley. Tony said something else to him, but he’d stopped listening.

The knife had designs carved into it, and it looked like they were recent. They were rough and uneven; someone had done this by hand, and poorly. At first, Peter couldn’t quite make out what they were. It looked like tic-tac-toe gone very, very wrong. After a minute, though, some of the lines started to connect, and it clicked. 

They were scratchy, rough, and messy, but the spiderwebs criss-crossing the handle of the knife were unmistakable.  _ Did Deadpool do these? _

“Kid? You still there?”

Peter snapped out of it. “What?”

“I asked where Deadpool went. Or if you knew who he said he was protecting.”

“I don’t know, I–I think he lied to me.”

Tony snorted. “I’m not even a little bit surprised. Why do you think he lied?”

Peter looked at the spiderwebs. Of all the knives he knew Deadpool had, he’d used this one. He’d used this one, and left it behind. This expensive, specific, hand-carved-by-Deadpool knife.

This wasn’t a coincidence.

“Tony, I think...I think he’s here for  _ me _ .”

“What? Peter, what do you mean?” Tony asked.

Peter folded his mask back down and put the knife away. “I’ll explain later, I gotta go.”

“Peter, wait do not go after–” Tony’s voice was cut off as Spider-Man hung up.

Spider-Man stood up, looking around the city. Somewhere, Deadpool was out there, and he was gonna find him. 

Post-graduation life just got a lot more interesting.  
  


 


	2. Hour Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spider-Man goes looking for Deadpool, and finds a little more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't expect updates this big or this frequent you'll only be disappointed
> 
> (thank you thank you thank you for the support this has gotten so far! I'm EXCITED for this fic y'all)
> 
> (also, hey friends, I have a tag list for updates on tumblr! just message me @lowkey-avenger)

Spider-Man dropped down onto the rooftop above the alley silently, peering over the edge and looking for any signs of Deadpool. He could see a man in a hoodie entering a convenience store on his left. There was an older woman crossing the street on his right. 

No signs of Deadpool anywhere. Well, no obvious ones, at least. Nothing was exploding or being hit with a rain of bullets. 

Unfortunately, he hadn’t seen where Deadpool went after he’d left the alley, so he didn’t have much to go on to find him. Iron Man hadn’t been able to track him down yet or find his reason for being in town, and Spider-Man had only seen Deadpool take one turn when he ran out of the alley. He could start there, at least. It was something. 

Looking down to make sure the sidewalk was clear, he dropped off the edge of the roof and landed quietly on the concrete. It was close to three in the morning now; the streets were mostly empty, save for a few night workers and the occasional group of  teenagers. No one paid him any mind as he started walking, checking everything for clues.

The further Spider-Man went down the street, the more he thought he might have missed his window. It’d been nearly an hour since he’d seen Deadpool go this way, and he hadn’t even seemed very sure of his choice when he’d made it. 

Spider-Man stopped and turned around. Maybe Deadpool had gone the wrong way. Or gone the wrong way on purpose to throw him off. Both were equally likely possibilities, and so far, Spider-Man wasn’t having any luck with this direction. He stuck a web to a lampost and swung himself back towards the alley. He got back to where he started and headed off to the  _ right  _ this time, keeping his eyes open for signs of Deadpool. Broken windows, shell casings, anything.

He got about a block and a half before he finally saw something. Stuck to the bricks, maybe a foot off the ground, was a small clump of Spider-Man’s webbing. It looked like Deadpool had done the thing everyone does and just flailed his hand around until the webbing had flung off, and seeing how it hadn’t dissolved at all yet, it had to have been fairly recent.

Spider-Man grinned and headed further down the street with more determination, looking for more clues. On the next block, he found another clump of webbing, stuck on a building to his right. Spider-Man took the turn and continued on. He found another one three blocks later and made a left.

Then, three blocks later, he found him. 

Outside of an old office building, leaning against a large black SUV, playing some kind of game on his phone with one hand and spinning a knife with the other, was Deadpool. The engine was running on the SUV. He also had a huge, very full duffel bag on the ground next to him.

Spider-Man quickly leapt across buildings and perched on the edge of the one the SUV was parked in front of as quietly as possible, looking back and making sure Deadpool didn’t notice him on the way over. After he settled himself, he pulled out his phone and snapped a few pictures of the location and the car. He sent them to Iron Man, along with a text saying “ _ under control _ ”.

After a couple minutes, a man in a pristine black suit walked out of the office. He had a pretty classic “bad-guy” look, with dark, slicked-back hair and a clean-shaven face. Spider-Man snapped a quick photo of him before he put his phone away and ducked out of sight.

Deadpool looked up as the man walked over, putting his phone back in his pocket but leaving his knife in plain view. “Hey, Mr. Payday. Got my pay?”

The man held up a credit card. “You’ll get half of your payment when the files arrive, the other half when you return. This is for expenses on the road, along with extra for good faith.” he said as Deadpool reached for the card. At the last second, the man moved it out of Deadpool’s reach. “No planes. No cell phones. You use  _ this  _ credit card only,  _ this  _ car only–” he gestured at the car, “–and only the phone we provide you. And most importantly,  _ no looking–” _

“–in the boxes, yeah, I get it.” Deadpool finished with him before he snatched the card and pocketed it. “There are easier ways to transport information, you know. My favorite being the glorious, glorious internet.”

“If we wanted it done the easy way, we wouldn’t have hired you. Wait here for the shipment.” the man said as he headed back to the door. He stopped just before he entered the building, turning back. “Do this right, Deadpool, and you’ll make many lives better. Do it wrong, it’ll be the worst mistake you ever make.” he said dramatically, going inside.

Deadpool stuck his tongue out at the man’s back and flipped him off. Spider-Man snorted and got up, waiting for Deadpool to look away. As expected, he quickly went back to his spot leaning against the car and pulled out his phone.

Spider-Man climbed down the side of the building–avoiding windows–and when he got low enough, he jumped down on top of the SUV, landing lightly on the balls of his feet. Deadpool didn’t look up.

Spider-Man took the opportunity and looked down at his phone screen. Deadpool wasn’t playing a game like he’d originally thought; he was texting someone with impressive speed for being one-handed. It was just slightly too far away for Spider-Man to read the messages, but he could see that he was texting someone named “Ness”.

Quietly, Spider-Man arranged himself so he was sitting cross-legged. He looked over his shoulder once, checking that he wasn’t about to caught and/or shot.

Spider-Man pulled out the knife again and started to spin it in his hand. “So, protecting a car, huh? Seems like an easy gig.”

Deadpool froze, then looked at the sky. “Jesus?”

Despite his position, Spider-Man laughed. Deadpool turned around and gasped when he saw him. “Oh my god, Spidey! Even better!”

Spider-Man rolled his eyes. “This doesn’t look like a protection job, Deadpool.”

Deadpool mocked offense. “Ex _ cuse _ me? I am giving maximum effort here protecting Beatrice.” he said, patting the car.

Spider-Man raised an eyebrow and stopped spinning the knife, holding it point-down. After a moment, he jabbed it down and dragged it along the top of the car, leaving a scratch about a foot and a half long.

Deadpool shrieked and made grabby-hands at Spider-Man’s knife, shouting, “BEATRICE, NO!”

Spider-Man laughed, preparing to respond with something snarky, but suddenly his spider-senses picked up something behind him. He dropped down and landed next to Deadpool, who was still blabbering about how he’d hurt the car.

Deadpool opened his mouth and Spider-Man quickly covered it with his hand. “Someone’s coming.”

Deadpool groaned and moved his hand away. “It’s about damn time, I wanna get moving.” he said, then it dawned on him. “Shit, Spidey, you gotta get outta here!”

Spider-Man crossed his arms, staying put. “What is this job really about, Deadpool?”

“Protection, now get out of here before you make me lose it!” Deadpool insisted.

Spider-Man glared. “Tell me the real answer or I get  _ everyone  _ arrested.”

Deadpool glared right back. “You’re not costing me this job, Spidey, no matter  _ how  _ glorious your ass is.”

Spider-Man blinked, then decided to ignore that. Behind the car, the door to the office opened. Both men looked up at the sound before looking back to each other. 

“Real answer, Deadpool.” Spider-Man warned. They had maybe five seconds before he was going to be seen.

Deadpool debated. After a moment, he angrily walked over to the driver’s seat door and yanked it open. “I’m transferring files to California in this car. I don’t know what’s in them or who that guy–” he jabbed a thumb in the direction of the man walking towards them, “–works for or why they can’t just use a  _ goddamn plane,  _ but they’re paying me a fuckton of money and I’m not asking questions. Get in and hide. Now.”

Spider-Man hesitated. Deadpool grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him towards the open car door. “ _ Go. _ ” he hissed, and Spider-Man gave in, crawling in and climbing over the passenger seat and ducking out of sight.

Deadpool slammed the door shut just as the man rounded the corner of the car. “What was that?”

“None of your goddamn business.” Deadpool snapped. “You gonna bring me the fuckin’ stuff or what?”

The man raised an eyebrow, then snapped his fingers at the door to the office. A moment later, three men walked out, each carrying a large metal box. Their clothes were slightly shabbier than the leader, who Spider-Man decided to just call “Suit Man”. The contrast between the hoodies and jeans and Suit Man’’s nice suit didn’t fit any of the gangs Spider-Man knew of. Most groups went for uniform.

Spider-Man ducked down further in his seat as the loaders opened the trunk and placed the boxes inside. After some rustling and re-arranging, the trunk was closed again and the men went back inside, leaving just Suit Man. When the door closed behind them, Spider-Man adjusted to try and see Deadpool’s conversation. From his point of view, he could only see Deadpool.

“You have one week, Deadpool. Drop off the files and return back here. You’ll get your pay then.”

Deadpool rolled his eyes. “I know the rules, pal. Got the phone?” he asked, holding out a hand.

There was a pause, presumably when Suit Man grabbed the phone out of his pocket, before a phone was put into Deadpool’s outstretched palm. Deadpool flipped it over and started to examine it.

“The passcode is currently 1-2-3-4, and you can change it to be whatever you’d like.” Suit Man said as Deadpool looked over the phone.

Deadpool nodded and unlocked it. “Wow, a whole two apps. Impressive.”

“I assure you, it’s sufficient.” Suit Man assured. “Is this all you need for your trip?” he asked, looking down at Deadpool’s bag.

“Should be. I’ll be back in a week.”

“Sounds like a plan, Deadpool…” Suit Man started, but Spider-Man stopped listening. Something was bothering his spider-senses. He couldn’t see anything from his bad vantage point, but something was off.

Then, a moment later, he heard it. In the distance, maybe two blocks away; he could hear the hum and feel it through the car. It was getting louder, and fast.

_ Four motorcycles, maybe five. At least two large cars. Going about thirty over the speed limit. _

Whatever Deadpool was doing, it was about to go very, very wrong.

Spider-Man looked back to Deadpool, seeing if the man had noticed it. Just as he did, Deadpool straightened, going still and looking down the street behind Suit Man. He turned around, meeting Spider-Man’s eyes for a moment before he turned back. He heard it, too.

Then, just as his spider-senses predicted, four motorcycles and two SUVs came speeding around a corner about five blocks away. They had about twenty seconds before hell broke loose. Deadpool swore impressively and shoved Suit Man towards the door.

“Get inside!” he shouted, then ran back and grabbed his bag off the ground, yanking open one of the back doors and throwing it in before he quickly climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Suit Man didn’t need to be told twice; he ran inside and locked the door behind him.

Spider-Man sat up straight in his seat, watching as Deadpool adjusted his mirrors as fast as possible and started to pull away. “Deadpool, what the hell is going on?”

Deadpool glanced back once, swore, then gunned it, sending them speeding away from the office building. “Sorry Spidey, we got company. Up for a fight?”

“Absolutely not.” Spider-Man crossed his arms.

Behind them, a man leaned out of one of the cars, taking aim with a large gun and firing. It ricocheted off the mirror on Deadpool’s side, making both of them jump. Deadpool looked at Spider-Man and gestured wildly at the mirror. “Seriously?”

“I am not fighting for whatever weird supervillain stuff you’ve gotten yourself into. No way.”

“Spidey _ , they’re _ the bad guys!” Deadpool insisted, waving a hand behind them before he took a hard left, making both of them grab onto parts of the car. All of the vehicles behind them managed to follow.

“I still don’t know that  _ you’re  _ not a bad guy!” Spider-Man insisted right back.

“I brought you here, didn’t I?” Deadpool snapped as he took a right.

Spider-Man paused. “Wait, what?”

Deadpool pulled a gun out of one of his pockets, set it in his lap, and started to roll down a window. “I left the–”

Suddenly, a storm of bullets started flying at the car from behind, interrupting him. Spider-Man swore and Deadpool suddenly shoved a hand at his head, pushing him down.

“The windows are supposed to be bulletproof, but I don’t trust it. Stay down.” Deadpool ordered.

Spider-Man shoved his hand away. “Tell me what you meant by ‘brought me here’.”

“I think there are better times, Spidey!” Deadpool shouted.

Spider-Man opened his mouth, then shut it again. He had a point. “Fine. Get us out of this.”

“I’m doing my best here. You could  _ help,  _ you know.” Deadpool pointed out, raising an eyebrow at him.

One of the motorcycles caught up to the SUV on Spider-Man’s side and raised a gun to the window.

Spider-Man stared at him for a moment, then looked over to Deadpool, who still had an eyebrow raised. Wordlessly, Spider-Man reached up and opened the sunroof with one hand and pulled Deadpool’s knife out of his pocket with the other. Deadpool’s face broke into a grin. He looked  _ ecstatic.  _ Spider-Man glared back.

“If I die, let it be know that I hate you.”

“Noted. Good luck not dying.” Deadpool said cheerily. 

Spider-Man sighed and climbed out onto the roof of the car, letting his senses take over. He held the knife in one hand, held onto the car with the other, and took a breath.

_ Go time. _

In one fluid motion, he launched himself off the car and backflipped towards the nearest motorcycle, throwing a web and clogging the rider’s gun before he could fire. He threw a web out to lampost, swung around, and slammed his legs into the rider’s chest, sending him flying off the bike. He swung around the post one more time and landed on the bike before it fell over, balancing on the balls of his feet.

Another motorcycle pulled up behind him, taking aim. Spider-Man smirked, spun Deadpool’s knife in his hand, then stabbed the back wheel of his bike and launched himself off, sending it skidding towards the other rider, who couldn’t get out of the way in time. Spider-Man landed in a crouch on Deadpool’s car.

A moment later, the bikes collided and crashed into one of the SUVs, forcing it to a halt. For a moment, Spider-Man feared he’d killed the second rider, but he saw her roll off and dodge the worst of the crash. He let out a breath and looked at the other vehicles.

“Nice going, Spidey! Need a gun?” Deadpool shouted through the sunroof, extending a gun through the hole. 

“ _ No! _ ” Spider-Man shouted back, jumping off the car again and heading for the last SUV, which had a man leaning out the passenger window with a very large gun. Spider-Man flung a web out as he jumped, grabbing the gun and using his momentum to rip it out of the shooter’s hands. He landed on the roof of their car, noticing their also-open sunroof.

Well, that just made it too easy.

Spider-Man looked back, noting the positions of the motorcycles around him. One in front, one slightly to the right. The driver of the SUV started to reach for his handgun. Spider-Man looked up again, trying to tell where the motorcycles were trying to go. Suddenly, one pulled out a gun, aiming it at Deadpool and starting to pull off to his side.

_ Gotcha. _

Spider-Man took a breath, slowly let it out, took one last look at the positions, then dropped down into the SUV, taking out the gun and stabbing the knife through the man’s sleeve, attaching him to the steering wheel. He landed with his back to the windshield on top of the man’s right leg, making him cry out in pain and forcing his foot down onto the accelerator.

The car sped up quickly as Spider-Man punched the driver and effectively knocked him out. Spider-Man waited one, two, three seconds, then turned the wheel as quickly as he could all the way to the left before he grabbed the knife and jumped out, swinging a web to another lampost, swinging around and kicking the top of the car with all of his strength, shattering the windows and sending the car flipping towards the other motorcycles. The car took out the motorcycle closest to Deadpool and missed the other by inches as he swerved out of the way. As he dodged the car, he fired his gun, managing to clip Spider-Man in the arm as he made his way back to Deadpool’s car.

Spider-Man swore, slightly ticked that he’d calculated wrong, then stuck a web to the chest of the last rider and yanked him rather roughly off of his bike and threw him off to the side, no longer caring for style.

“That was  _ awesome,  _ Spidey!” Deadpool yelled.

Spider-Man looked around, making sure no one else was after them for a good thirty seconds before he gingerly crawled back into the SUV.

After a minute, it seemed that it was over. When they were a good distance from the crashes–and the cops that had showed up–Deadpool slowed down and started driving like a normal person.

“You hurt, Spidey?” Deadpool suddenly asked, looking pointedly at his arm.

Spider-Man sighed and looked at the wound. It wasn’t deep, or particularly long, but it still stung and was getting blood on his suit. “I’ll live.”

Deadpool didn’t seem to buy it. After two minutes of slightly-awkward silence, he pulled over and killed the engine. He stretched backwards into the back seats, getting slightly in Spider-Man’s space, then returned and produced a roll of gauze. “Here.”

Spider-Man stared at it for a moment before he accepted it and started to tear a piece off. “Explain.”

“It’s–it’s gauze, Spidey. Have you never seen gauze? I thought someone in your line of work would have–”

“The  _ fight,  _ Deadpool! What the hell are you doing?” Spider-Man shouted, throwing the roll at him.

Deadpool caught the roll and chucked it back into the back seat. “Oh, right. I’m not  _ entirely  _ sure who that was, but I was warned about some...interference.”

“ _ Interference? _ ” Spider-Man shouted, shoving him. “Seriously?”

“I don’t know! They said they were helping people, I think I’m doing the right thing!”

“There is no way in hell this is the right thing.”

“Well–you fought for it! You’re Spider-Man! It has to be the right thing if you’re fighting for it.”

Spider-Man paused. “What?”

Deadpool looked out the windshield, away from him. “I just–I was trying to do the right thing.” he admitted, looking down. “But I suck at knowing what’s right and wrong, and you–you’re always right. I thought that if  _ you  _ approved, it would be okay.”

“You didn’t even tell me about it! You lied!” Spider-Man pointed out.

“But I got you to come, didn’t I?”

Spider-Man froze. “Wha–no you didn’t! You lied and ran off after you  _ let a mugger go. _ ”

Deadpool turned back to face him and started to search him. “You still have it, don’t you?”

“Hands off!” Spider-Man swatted him away. “What are you talking about?”

“The knife.”

Spider-Man gasped. “Oh my god, I  _ knew  _ it! You left that on purpose!” he exclaimed, jabbing a finger into Deadpool’s chest.

Deadpool rolled his eyes. “No shit, that was expensive!”

Spider-Man looked down, thinking. “So, what, you left a knife in the alley hoping I’d pick it up and, what, magically find–” he cut himself off, groaning and slapping a hand to his forehead. “The  _ webbing. _ ”

Deadpool nodded, looking excited. “I knew you could follow the clues! You’re the best superhero!”

Spider-Man gave him a look. “ _ No,  _ you just left bread crumbs and I followed them like an  _ idiot! _ ”

“Agree to disagree.”

“No, we are not going to agree to–never mind. Look, Deadpool, do you really want to do the right thing?”

Deadpool nodded eagerly.

“Then take this weird, bulletproof car–”

Deadpool kept nodding.

“–get all your stuff out of it–”

Deadpool nodded, but seemed less sure of it.

“–and drive it to a police station. Or Avengers Tower. Either works.” Spider-Man finished.

Deadpool gave him a flat look. “ _ Spidey. _ What if this really is the right thing?”

“You have no way to tell, Deadpool! You need to turn this stuff in to the police.”

“But you can tell! That’s why I got you here!” Deadpool insisted.

Spider-Man sighed. “No, I can’t. I don’t know what’s in them and neither do you.”

Deadpool looked around frantically, searching for something else to say. His eyes settled on his duffel bag, then went back to Spider-Man. “Then...then come with me!”

“ _ What _ ?”

“Come with me! I have the money for everything, it’s only a week, and you can make sure it’s not bad-guy work!” Deadpool said, gaining confidence.

Spider-Man wildly shook his head. “No. No no no no no.”

“Please? Pretty please? It’s only a week!”

“No! I can’t miss any…” Spider-Man trailed off, realizing he could no longer finish that sentence with “school”. He couldn’t even really finish that sentence with “work”. His awful gig taking pictures for the Bugle barely paid him anything. They wouldn’t even notice if he was gone. “I can’t–I have to–I mean, I–” he tried, but he had nothing.

He had no reason to stay.

“I’ll give you half the payment.” Deadpool offered, raising his eyebrows.

Spider-Man looked at him suspiciously. “How much is that, exactly?”

“Roughly two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

The poor college student inside of Spider-Man nearly lost his goddamn mind. “ _ They’re paying you five-hundred thousand dollars? _ ”

Deadpool shrugged. “I probably could have gotten more, but I thought it was a bad guy thing to make people go broke.”

Spider-Man was feeling his will to say no leave him. This was bad. This was really, really bad. There was no way he could do this. He really shouldn’t do this.

But it was  _ so much money. _

“What d’ya say, Spidey?” Deadpool asked, holding out a hand. “Wanna take a road trip? For  _ justice? _ ”

Spider-Man stared at the hand. He glanced up at Deadpool’s face, then back down at his outstretched hand. 

No one would miss him. He didn’t have school. He didn’t have a job. He didn’t have  _ her.  _ He had nothing to lose.

He grabbed Deadpool’s hand and shook it. “I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's two in the morning. help me


	3. Hour Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the road trip begin.
> 
> No, really. Spidey wasn't kidding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now we watch as the updates slowly get farther and farther apart lmaooo

“Really? Really really?”

Ignoring all of his instincts, Spider-Man nodded.

Deadpool gave him the brightest smile possible through a mask and started the engine again and started to drive, hooking up his phone to the speakers and setting up music and directions. Within seconds, the car was filled with an older hip-hop song and a slightly-robotic voice giving them directions.

“So, it’s a week, obviously, and I can pay for everything with our possible blood money, and this is gonna be  _ so fun.  _ We’ll probably have to buy you clothes, and maybe a toothbrush, but we can do that later.”

Spider-Man’s eyes went wide. He hadn’t  _ packed.  _ “Wait, wait. I have to go get my own stuff. Pull over, I’ll go to my apartment and pack a bag.”

Deadpool shook his head. “No way! We’re already behind schedule.”

“What? You left the place a half-hour ago!”

“It’s a long drive!” Deadpool insisted. “We’ve lost too much time.”

Spider-Man gave him a flat look and crossed his arms. “I am not spending a week in my suit.”

“You won’t! I’ll buy you new stuff. We’ll stop in the morning. Promise.” Deadpool assured, extending a hand with his little finger out towards Spider-Man. “Pinky-promise.”

“Why not tonight?”

“Scheduling, Spidey. Trust me.” Deadpool said, looking over and shaking his hand at him.

Spider-Man sighed and linked his pinky with Deadpool’s, shaking their hands once. He needed new clothes anyway.

This was such a bad idea.

“You can get some sleep if you want, spidey. I’ve got a hoodie back there–” he gestured at the bag in the back seat, “–if you wanna use it as a pillow. Or a blanket.”

Spider-Man looked down at the clock on the dashboard. It was nearing four in the morning. “Not worth it. I might as well just stay up.”

Deadpool shrugged. “You’re gonna be here awhile tomorrow anyway. Do whatever.”

Spider-Man looked at the clock again. Deadpool had a point. He stretched back and unzipped the bag, rifling through until he found an old grey hoodie. For the moment, he was going to ignore the amount of weapons he found in the bag before he found it. He pulled it back to the front and examined it. It smelled like gunpowder and bad decisions.

“Is this blood?” Spider-Man exclaimed, holding up the mysterious stain on one of the sleeves.

Deadpool looked over. “Probably. But it’s old. And recently washed. Promise. Only the best for Spidey.”

Spider-Man dropped the hoodie abruptly into his lap. It fell down to the floor. “Forget it.”

Deadpool laughed, then leaned over to pick it up, miraculously not sending their car flying into another lane. “It’s not that bad, Spidey. Just fold it so you don’t touch the sleeve. Besides, you’ve got a mask on.” he pointed out.

Slowly, Spider-Man took the hoodie back and folded it up. “Fine. Wake me up for either breakfast or shopping.”

“Will do. When’s the last time you ate?”

“Dinner at seven-ish.” Spider-Man answered. 

Deadpool looked over at him. “It’s almost four. How are you not hungry?”

Spider-Man froze. He forgot that not-poor people ate pretty regularly. After a moment, he awkwardly shrugged. It wasn’t anywhere close to believable. “Dunno.”

Deadpool very, very obviously did not buy that for a second. Wordlessly, he reached down into one of the pouches on his belt, produced a protein bar, and extended it out to him. “Bedtime snack.”

“I don’t need a–”

“Nachos. Chocolate cake. Pizza. Burgers. Protein bar.” Deadpool cut him off, staring at him.

Spider-Man stared back, confused, until a moment later, his stomach growled audibly between them. Deadpool raised his eyebrows.

Spider-Man huffed and snatched the protein bar, downing it in two bites. “I hate you.”

“Well, I hate malnutrition. Go to sleep, you can pig out in the morning.”

Spider-Man grumbled to himself as he folded up the hoodie–blood-side down–against the window and let the rumbling of the car (and Deadpool’s bad singing, which began immediately) lull him to sleep.

* * *

 

“Spidey. Spiiiiidey. Wake up, sugar buns.”

Peter blinked awake and shook his head. “I’m vetoing that nickname. Hard pass.”

Deadpool put a hand on his arm and gently shook him. “Breakfast time.”

Peter groaned and sat up, stretching. It was significantly brighter outside now, and when he looked out the window, they were nowhere near New York City anymore. They were parked in front of an old, questionably-sanitary diner. He looked over at Deadpool, intending to ask where they were, then froze.

Deadpool was no longer wearing his suit, instead wearing a pair of old jeans and a grey t-shirt with a black jacket zipped over it. He still had his mask and gloves on.

Spider-Man looked him up and down. “What’s with the mask?”

“Maintaining public decency.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it. Do you want to change? You can borrow some clothes if you want.” Deadpool said, changing the subject before Peter could ask about the mask again.

Peter looked down at himself. He forgot he was still in his suit. He forgot he was still supposed to be Spider-Man. “Uh, yeah. I guess I’ll borrow something.”

Deadpool nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll stay here.” he said, then put his hands firmly over his eyes.

Peter rolled his eyes and reached back for the duffel bag, digging around until he found acceptable clothes and then awkwardly changing out of his spandex in the front seat, keeping a close eye on Deadpool to make sure he didn’t peek. To his surprise, Deadpool never even tried.

“Alright, we’re good.” Peter announced.

Deadpool removed his hands, excited, then frowned. “Aw, man, you’re still wearing your mask!”

Peter rolled his eyes and put his hood up. “So are you.”

“Touché. Ready to go?”

In response, Peter opened his door and got out, stretching immediately and groaning when his back popped.

“Are you coming, Spidey?” Deadpool called from the other side of the car. Peter snapped out of it and jogged over. Deadpool smiled when he came into view and then they walked into the diner together, both putting up their hoods.

“Table for two?” a friendly blonde waitress asked them when they came in. Deadpool nodded, and she seated them in a booth near the back. When they sat down, Deadpool took the side that allowed him to face the door. They ordered drinks and the waitress left them to look at their menus.

“Order whatever you want. And that doesn’t mean be polite and order one goddamn pancake and pretend it’s enough, so don’t try.” Deadpool added before Peter could open his mouth and protest.

Peter glared at him and started to look over his menu. Everything looked good, considering the only thing he’d eaten in over twelve hours was a protein bar. He could probably put down three meals easily, but he wasn’t going to take advantage, even if Deadpool’s money wasn’t actually  _ his  _ money. He’d just get one of the breakfast combos, add a couple sides so Deadpool actually thought he was going overboard, and call it a day.

The waitress came back a few minutes later, giving Peter his water and Deadpool his black coffee. “Alright, so what will we have today?”

Deadpool gestured at Peter to go first. He nodded and smiled up at the waitress. “I’ll have a pancake breakfast combo with an extra side of hashbrowns and an extra side of scrambled eggs.”

The waitress scribbled it down and looked over to Deadpool. “And for you?”

“I’ll have what he had, extra sides and all, and the chocolate pancakes with a side of bacon.”

Peter looked at him wide-eyed as the waitress scribbled that down and took their menus. “Why the hell did you order so much food?”

“Because you’ll eat it.” Deadpool said simply. “Or we’ll have leftovers. Either way, it’s a win, but I’m willing to bet you’ll eat it.”

Peter glared at him. Deadpool stared calmly back until Peter gave up and looked away. He settled instead for looking around the diner, taking note of each patron, none of whom had seemed to notice that two masked weirdos had joined them.

Peter blinked. No one had really seemed to notice the masks, even the waitress who’d looked both of them in the eye-holes. That had  _ never  _ happened to Spider-Man before, even when he’d stopped into places blocks away from the Tower. Someone always stared.

“Hey, Deadpool–”

“Wade.” Deadpool cut him off, then held out a hand. “Wade Wilson.”

Slowly, Peter took his hand and shook it. “I’m, uh, still Spider-Man. For now.”

“I figured. ‘Secret identity’ and all that. I’ll just call you Jeff.”

Peter gave him a flat look. “You will not call me  _ Jeff.  _ Just call me ‘Spidey’ like you have been.” 

“ _ Fine. _ ” Deadpool–Wade–huffed. “You gonna wear the mask the whole time?”

Peter hesitated. He hadn’t really thought that part through yet. He didn’t want to wear it for an entire week, but he still didn’t really know if he could trust this borderline-psychotic man with any information involving his identity. From what he’d heard from the Avengers about him, he shouldn’t have even told Deadpool what  _ country  _ he lived in, much less  _ take off his mask.  _

“I–I don’t know.”

“I mean, I can keep taking us to places like this, but it might make it easier if we could go shopping without looking like we’re gonna rob the place.”

Peter frowned. “Places like this?” he asked, looking around for a moment before it clicked. 

The waitress hadn’t looked at his mask. No one had looked at his mask. Peter looked back to Wade. “Where are we?”

“Pretty close to the center of Pennsylvania, I think.”

“No, I mean–why is no one...looking at us? People don’t even ignore the masks in New York.”

Wade shrugged. “I’ve been here a couple times, they’re used to it.”

“Even the other customers?” Peter asked, raising an eyebrow.

Wade opened his mouth to answer, then closed it as their waitress came back with a  _ lot  _ of food. She set it all down, somehow not dropping anything, and Peter caught her arm as she walked away. 

“Excuse me, but why isn’t anyone here surprised by…?” he trailed off, gesturing at his and Wade’s faces.

She gave him a confused look. “We don’t get many people who aren’t used to it. There’s only a few ‘normal’ regulars.”

Peter gave her a confused look back as he released her, then turned to Wade, who somehow had already taken a very large bite of his pancakes and put his mask back in place. “Did you bring me to a mercenary diner? Is that even a  _ thing _ ?”

Wade snorted. “No, it’s not, but this may be a place that my ‘colleagues’–” he put the word in air quotes, “–and I frequent.”

Peter glared at him, then looked down at his food. “How do I know there’s not, like, gunpowder in this?”

“Nah, you’re may more likely to get meth residue from the lab in the back.”

“ _ What? _ ”

Wade laughed so hard he nearly knocked over his coffee. “I’m kidding, but you should have seen your face! Eat the food, Spidey, it’s good.”

After maybe a solid minute of just staring at it, Peter’s hunger won over his skepticism and he rolled his mask up to his nose and took a bite of hashbrowns. 

It was so good he almost moaned at it. “Oh my  _ god. _ ”

Wade laughed at him. “I know, Spidey. Eat all you want.”

Peter considered glaring at him, but his eggs looked  _ really  _ good, so he held his tongue and dove into his food. 

In about fifteen minutes, Peter had downed his entire meal, two plates of hashbrowns, and he was reaching for the second meal Wade had ordered him when he froze, hand hovering over the middle of the table. 

Wade paused in his chewing–mask down again–and looked at him. “You alright there, Spidey?” he asked through his mouthful.

Peter snapped out of it and took his hand back. He busied himself with arranging his empty plates neatly for the waiter. “Yep.”

Wade raised an eyebrow. “Still hungry?”

Peter shook his head. “Nope.”

Slowly, Wade reached forward and grabbed Peter’s stack of old plates, wordlessly switching them out for the other plate still full of food. Peter glanced down at it, then back up to Wade, then pushed it back a few inches.

Wade groaned. “For fuck’s sake, I know you’re hungry. Will you just eat the damn food? It’s not even my money, I can easily afford to feed you the proper amount for a week. And don’t try and say you don’t need it!” Wade added when Peter started to open his mouth, “I saw you kick an SUV so hard it crumpled like  _ tin foil.  _ You need the food.”

Peter blinked. Wade was more observant than he thought. He looked back down at the food, sighed, and pulled it back towards him, picking up a fork and stabbing an egg. “I hate you.” he told Wade, brandishing the fork at him.

“But you like free food, so you’re gonna deal with it.” Wade pointed out, then watched Peter eat the whole thing until he finished it, keeping a pleased smile on his face the whole time. When they finally paid and walked out, Peter was pleasantly stuffed but still fully aware that going to back to being poor was gonna  _ suck.  _

Wade still had that stupid smile on his face when they got back in the car. Peter wanted to smack it off.

“Alrighty, now all we gotta do is drive for eight hours and then we’ll hit some of the shops in either Pittsburgh or Cleveland. Your choice.” Wade said, pulling out of the parking lot and heading back towards the highway.

That seemed...kind of far. Peter blinked and looked over at him. “How far exactly are we going? What’s the drop location?” he asked.

“California.”

Peter turned to him in shock. “ _ California? _ How far even  _ is  _ that?”

“About 2,000 miles.” Wade answered simply.

“Can we even make it there and back in a week?” Peter exclaimed.

Wade nodded. “If we speed, which I do.”

Peter scrubbed a hand over his masked face, irritated that he still had to wear it. That he had to wear it all the way to  _ California.  _ “How long is the drive?”

Wade shrugged. “Forty-three hours.”

Peter almost laughed. He could feel the existential crisis coming on again. “Oh my god.”

“Yeah, I know. Wanna play the alphabet game?”


	4. Hour Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter finally gets some new clothes and Wade can finally see his ass when he's wearing pants that fit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been a month please don't hate me

They’d been in the car for about an hour when Peter started to notice. It’s hard to tell, since Wade was wearing a mask, but once he noticed, it was hard to not notice. Especially since there was nothing else around them to look at. They’d been on the same empty road for the entire hour, surrounded by nothing but corn.

About once every five or so minutes, Wade was yawning, and Peter was watching him do it because it was the only thing around more interesting than _corn_. They weren’t small yawns, either; huge, whole-bodied, I’m-trying-not-to-crash-a-car yawns.

Peter wasn’t really sure how much longer he could go before it turned into sorry-I-crashed-the-car yawns. When the next yawn came, right on schedule, Peter figured he should probably do something before they both–well, before one of them–died a horrible death.

“Wade, pull over.”

Wade looked him over for a moment, then frowned and turned back to the road. “Why?”

“So we can switch spots. I’ll drive for a while and you can sleep.”

Wade shook his head. “Nuh-uh. No way. I drive.”

Peter gave him a look. “You haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours. I’m guessing.” he added, frowning. “Just pull over. I’ll follow the directions and even speed a little bit for you.”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

Wade looked over at him for a moment, then sighed, looking back at the road. “Because you’ll just drive to a police station and turn us in.”

Peter blinked. That wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. “You–you really think I would do that? Seriously? Why would I do that?”

Wade shrugged. “You don’t like me, you don’t like this job, your moral compass is made of adamantium or something, the list goes on.”

Peter looked around in disbelief. He knew that Wade didn’t trust him, but he didn’t think it was to this degree. “Yeah, sure, but you’re not the only one participating in this probably-illegal job. If I turned you in, I’d have to turn myself in, too.” he pointed out.

Wade shook his head. “I–I’m still not pulling over. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve yawned like fifty times in the last fifteen minutes.” Peter said, crossing his arms.

“No, I haven’t.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, then faked a yawn. Almost immediately, Wade yawned back, then made a frustrated noise.

“You sure about that?” Peter said, smug.

Wade glared at him. “I am not pulling over. End of story.”

Peter huffed. “Wade, pull over.”

“No.”

“Wade, for fuck’s sake, _pull over!_ ” Peter snapped. Wade looked over in surprise. “Let me drive, so you can sleep and not kill us in a horrible car crash! I’m not going to drive to a fucking police station and turn us in. I told you I was in, and I meant it. I’m seeing this through to the end, no matter how stupid and fucked up it is.”

Wade frowned. “But–”

“No!” Peter cut him off with a hand. “No buts. We’re stuck together for a week, you’re gonna have to trust me at least a little bit. Now pull over, switch seats with me, and take a fucking nap while I try and find a mall in the middle of god-knows-where.”

Wade looked at him for a long moment, made a frustrated noise, then pulled over and put it in park. He sat there for a moment, looking at the miles and miles of corn, before he turned back to Peter. “Two hours, at most. Then wake me up.”

Peter gave him a look. “Four. At least.”

“Two.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Three.”

Wade rolled his eyes. “Fine.” he snapped, then opened his door and got out. Peter grinned and followed suit. When they crossed behind the car, Wade held his hand up for a grumpy high-five, which Peter laughed at and accepted. They got back in the car, Peter now in the driver’s seat, and Wade pouting like a child next to him.

“I’ll wake you up in three hours, Wade.”

Wade grumbled to himself and curled up into a comfortable position. He ended up looking like a grumpy five-year-old.

Peter smiled. “You know, I think there’s a hoodie in the back you could use as a pillow. It has a little blood on it, but it’s recently washed.”

Wade glared at him. “I hate you.”

Peter put it in drive and pulled back onto the road. “Sure you do. Get some sleep, cranky, I’ll see you in three hours.”

* * *

It was almost three and a half hours later when Peter finally saw an exit for a mall. Well, shopping center. Close enough. He took the exit and started to look for more signs to start pointing him in the right direction.

Wade was still sleeping next to him, sprawled out in the passenger seat and happily snoring. He was probably going to be mad when he discovered Peter woke him up late, but that was a problem for the future Peter who got to wear clothes that actually fit him correctly and didn’t smell like gunpowder and Mexican takeout.

Peter looked down at his clothes. They were at least two sizes too big, because Wade was a behemoth of a person, but other than that, they weren’t _that_ bad. Most of the stuff in Wade’s bag was old band t-shirts and ripped jeans, but the old black thermal and fully intact grey jeans Peter had found were pretty close to his own style and surprisingly comfortable.

What was not comfortable, however, was the stupid spandex mask he was currently committed to wearing for an entire week. He wasn’t even twenty-four hours in and it was driving him crazy. It was itchy, it was sweaty, it was starting to _smell_ , and it was a pain in the ass to wear long-term. He’d never worn the mask for more than eight hours before this, and there was a good reason why.

At this point, he would rather set it on fire than keep wearing it. He currently had it pushed up so that it was sitting on the bridge of his nose, but even that still felt claustrophobic. And it messed up the alignment of his eye-holes. He either dealt with feeling trapped in spandex or dealt with having bad vision while driving a car ten miles over the already-high midwestern speed limit.

It was gonna have to come off soon, there was no denying it. He still didn’t know if he could trust Wade with something as critical as his face, but he was going crazy. He figured Wade had to be, too. His mask was thicker than Peter’s.

Then again, he hadn’t shown any signs of discomfort. Peter had been itching his face, keeping his mask rolled up, anything to make it better, and Wade hadn’t done anything to show he didn’t like his mask. He didn’t even roll it up to sleep.

Peter looked over at him. He was still happily snoring, and now one of his hands was twitching in the air. If Wade could do just fine in his mask, so could he. Silently, Peter made a promise to himself.

If Wade was gonna keep his mask on, so was Peter.

Peter turned back to the road, now determined and feeling a little better about his mask, and followed the signs to the shopping center. He arrived about fifteen minutes later, pulling neatly into a parking space and killing the engine.

The instant the car fell silent, Wade snapped awake, flailing his limbs and grabbing a knife from his belt and slashing it through the air in panic. Peter screamed, covering his face with his arms and cowering away from Wade as much as he could while still inside the car. By some miracle, Peter didn’t get stabbed, and after a moment, Wade came to his senses and calmed down. Peter kept his arms over his face, not taking any chances.

“What the fuck was that?” he demanded, muffled by his arms.

Wade swore, then Peter heard some shuffling–hopefully Wade putting away the knife–before two hands gently grabbed his arms. He squeaked and flinched further into his car door.

“Spidey, I’m not gonna stab you.” Wade said gently, then slowly pried Peter’s arms off of his face. “Wait, I didn’t stab you, did I?”

“I don’t think so.” Peter responded as Wade patted down his arms for injuries. “So, backtracking, _what the fuck was that?_ ”

“It won’t happen again, okay? I’m sorry I scared you.” Wade said, rubbing Peter’s arms in a strangely reassuring way for someone who had almost stabbed him two seconds ago. “I just...got a little spooked, is all.”

Peter gave him a look. “You got…’spooked’ by me turning the car off?”

Wade frowned. “You turned the car off–oh, hey, we’re at a mall!” he said, looking out the windshield. “Whaddya know, it’s not a police station.”

Peter glared at him. “Wade.  I’m not dropping this. What happened?”

Wade sighed and sat back in his own seat, dropping his hands from Peter’s arms. “Look, I’m just–not used to waking up in safe places. It’s psychotic self-defense. I’ll sleep in the back from now on, alright? No more freakouts.”

Peter sighed. “It’s okay, you don’t have to sleep in the back, just...maybe warn a guy next time? Then I can just wake you up with a ten-foot pole.”

Wade, despite still looking upset, laughed. “Okay, fair. So, mall?”

“Shopping center, technically.” Peter corrected. “Your clothes are nice, but I’d rather have something that actually fits me.” he held up his hands, which were almost entirely covered by sleeves.

“Aw, but I _just_ got you into my pants!” Wade complained.

Peter gave him a flat look and got out of the car. Wade laughed behind him then got out himself, jogging around the car and stopping Peter before he could get very far.

Peter rolled his eyes when Wade stopped him. “What now?”

“I know you’re all, ‘no-showing-bad-man-your-face’ right now, but this might not be the best place for it.” he jerked his head in the direction of the shopping center.

Peter frowned. He had a point, but Peter already had a plan for the mask. He crossed his arms. “I’ll take my mask of if you do.”

Wade blinked. “What?”

“I’ll take my mask off if you do.” Peter repeated, more confident. “Until then, we look like the world’s worst robbers everywhere we go.”

“Spidey, I get what you’re going for here, but I don’t plan on taking this off anytime soon. For your _safety,_ I’m not gonna take it off.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “It can’t be _that_ bad.”

“You would be surprised.”

“I’m serious, Wade!”

“So am I!” Wade snapped at him. “I’m not taking it off.”

“Really? You’re gonna go an entire week with a mask on?” Peter asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, I will.”

“Wade, seriously.”

“I’m serious!” Wade exclaimed. “I’m not taking it off.”

Peter groaned and rubbed his hands over his eyes, then tucked his mask back down to its usual position and pushed past Wade, heading towards the doors to the shopping center. “Then I guess it’s gonna be a stuffy week.” he said as he walked away. He got about ten steps away when he noticed Wade wasn’t following. He stopped, sighed, and turned around. Wade was standing in the same spot, looking at the sky. “Are you coming or what?”

Wade snapped out of it, looked at him for a moment, then nodded and followed. Peter, despite not wanting to, waited for him to catch up before he started walking again.

When they got inside, it became very clear that Peter wasn’t in New York anymore. The place was mostly empty, save for a few old people and teenagers dressed like Clint Eastwood. Everything in the food court seemed like it came with a side of gravy. None of the shops inside were brands Peter had ever seen before, but they all looked reasonably priced and had clothes that didn’t belong to Wade, so he wasn’t complaining.

Next to him, Wade was looking around at everything like a kid who got left in the grocery store without his mom. He was looking over every little detail, stopping his gaze on every person for a few seconds before moving on to the next, even if there were only ten other people in there with them. At first, Peter thought he might be overwhelmed, but he seemed strangely calm. He followed Peter around silently, and Peter figured it was just best to leave him to it if it would keep him quiet.

“We should get lunch here, too.” Peter said over his shoulder to Wade. “Kill two birds with one stone.”

Wade nodded, looking over to the small food court. “I’ll get food, you go look at clothes. Try to go fast. And get skinny jeans, since I’m buying.”

Peter rolled his eyes, then headed into the nearest store as Wade headed off towards the food court. The store he chose was small and smelled slightly of incense, but it had basic enough clothes, so he committed to his choice and started to look around.

He found a couple things he liked quickly; basic thermals, a couple graphic t-shirts, a pair of skinny jeans he was pretty sure he was going to regret. He even found a nice leather jacket close to the back that looked _really_ good on him. The entire time he was shopping, he did notice that nearly all of the patrons in the store (all five of them) were watching him, but he did his best to ignore it. Part of him was tempted to take off his mask, but he decided against it.

It was maybe fifteen minutes later when Wade wandered in, carrying _so many bags_ of food with him. Peter looked at him in shock when he walked over. “Jesus, how much food do you need?”

“Correction: how much food do _you_ need? The answer is a lot, so I ordered a lot. I hope you like burgers.” Wade said, looking at the bags.

Peter rolled his eyes and extended his pile of clothes to Wade. “Trade me and go buy these.”

Wade looked at them in suspicion. “Are there skinny jeans?”

Peter, already regretting it, nodded, and Wade made a happy noise and made the trade. It was a little awkward, seeing as they both had their hands full, but they managed to not drop anything and Wade headed to the counter to pay for it.

Peter waited patiently, leaning against the glass front of the store. He’d been waiting for about two minutes when suddenly, he felt that familiar tingle in the back of his mind. His spider senses were picking up something behind him. Something very, very bad.

He froze, tightening his grip on the million food bags, then realized he was probably going to have to do something with the million food bags before something went wrong. Very, very gently, he set them down on the ground, ignoring the weird looks everyone in the store was giving him.

Wait, wait. Everyone was staring. Maybe someone had called the cops or something. He and Wade did look a little bit like psychotic criminals, and who knows, maybe Wade had done something weird at the food court. Then again, cops were loud. It wasn’t cops.

Maybe the people who had tried to kill them that first night had found them again. Yeah, that was way more likely.

It didn’t really matter what it was, Peter–Spider-Man, he supposed–was going to have to find a way to deal with it. Slowly, he turned around, trying to look casual. He didn’t see anything completely out of the ordinary.

Then, about two seconds later, he noticed the _five_ nearly-identical men standing evenly spaced around the shop he was in, all trying to casually keep an eye on the door to the shop and the exits of the shopping center. Judging from the slight bulge under their jackets, they were either carrying weapons or they were very happy to see him.

It was probably the first thing.

Spider-Man looked back into the store to find Wade. He was still at the counter, and only looked about halfway through his purchase, and had his back completely turned to Spider-Man. There was no way Spider-Man could subtly get his attention and not tip off the gunmen. He didn’t really have many options.

It was either try and make it over to Wade, or try and deal with this himself until Wade figured it out and helped. After all, it was his damn car they were after.

Wait. Fuck. The _car._

There was no way they weren’t in the parking lot breaking into that goddamn SUV.

Spider-Man looked back out of the store, then back to Wade. He was still blissfully unaware of the situation and calmly chatting with the man behind the counter.

Spider-Man looked up at the ceiling, silently prayed to Thor, and looked back to Wade.

“Hey, Deadpool!” he called across the store.

Wade turned around, frowning.

“I’m gonna go save the car, you should do something about the five people with guns outside the store.” Spider-Man said, then turned around and _booked it._

He didn’t see what Wade did after that, but the instant he made it out of the store, all five gunmen immediately decided to prove their namesake, firing at him as he ran and shattering every store window he passed.

Relying on spider-senses and speed, he made it to the parking lot without getting hit, but the instant he made it out, he skidded to a halt, ducking behind the closest car.

There were at least twenty guys in the parking lot, mostly gathered around the car, and they looked well on their way to breaking in. Since Spider-Man made sort of a ruckus when he burst through the doors, all twenty had noticed him, and a moment later, bullets starting turning the car he was ducking behind into swiss cheese.

Spider-Man could do a lot of things, but dodge twenty guns all aimed at him was pushing it just a little bit. He needed a way to get over to the SUV that didn’t involve dying a horrible death and the method from inside the shopping center probably wasn’t his best bet. The only thing keeping him from turning into ground beef was the old station wagon he was ducked behind, and he didn’t know how long it was gonna hold.

Suddenly, Spider-Man got an idea. He looked to his right and made a plan. It was gonna be tough, since they were in the middle of _fucking nowhere_ and there were only a few other cars in the lot, but he could make it work.

Using the web-shooters tucked under his sleeves, Spider-Man latched on to the nearest car–five spaces away–and yanked it towards him. One pull wasn’t enough to get it all the way over to him, but now it was sideways, perpendicular to the car he was currently hiding behind and providing more cover against the gunfire.

Hoping that the element of surprise would be enough to stop him from dying, Spider-Man dashed across the gap between the cars, somehow managing to not get hit, again. When he got behind the car, he stayed low, braced himself against the car doors, and _pushed,_ scooting the car backwards towards the SUV. It was heavy, and awkward, and there was now broken glass everywhere from the windows shattering, but it was working, acting as a shield between him and the collection of stereotypical murderers. He got about twenty feet when the gunfire behind him started to calm down.

Suddenly, his spider-senses alerted him to something on his left. A moment later, one of the gunmen–er, gun _women_ –vaulted over the hood of the car to his side, taking aim. Spider-Man rolled forward, dodging her fire. He immediately hit her gun with shot of webbing when he came up, effectively clogging it.

She looked at the gun in frustration, chucked it away, and pulled out a knife, lunging at him. He dodged her easily, sweeping out his leg and knocking her off her feet. She hit the ground with a thud, and even though he felt a little bad about it, Spider-Man took the opportunity to kick her away, far enough that she almost hit the station wagon.

A moment later, Wade burst through the doors to the shopping center, covered in blood and holding a gun in each hand. He took a moment to look around and get his bearings, noting Spider-Man’s position behind the car, the woman groaning on the ground twenty-something feet away, and the million bad guys behind him.

Immediately after, they started firing at him. He yelped and ran over to Spider-Man, ducking behind the car with him.

“Ow, fuck, that hurts.” he said, poking at his shoulder. “Stupid bad guys.”

Spider-Man stared wide-eyed at the gunshot wound on Wade’s shoulder. “Shit, Wade.”

Wade looked up at him. “Oh, right. Give it a minute, I’ll be fine. Healing, remember? I didn’t die when you stabbed me and I won’t die now.”

Spider-Man scrunched his nose. “Thanks for reminding me. What’s the plan here?”

Wade hummed, thinking. “Well, you’re gonna stay put behind your fun little barricade here–” he patted the car, “–and I’m gonna go kill a bunch of bad guys.” he finished, starting to vault over the car.

Spider-Man shook his head and yanked him back down. Wade hit the ground again with a yelp. “No! No killing anyone, are you crazy?”

“Yes.” Wade said with a nod.

Spider-Man rolled his eyes. “You wanted me here because I’m a good guy, right?”

Wade nodded.

“This may be new information, but _good guys don’t kill people._ No killing while I’m here. Or ever, really. It’s always bad.”

“Oh, come on, Spidey! You’ve really never killed anybody?”

Spider-Man quickly shook his head, forcing it down. “No.”

Wade groaned. “ _Fine._ No killing. But I’m still using guns.”

Spider-Man considered, then nodded. This was Deadpool; getting him to not kill anyone was probably as good as he was gonna get. “Fine, but I’m not just sitting here. That’s not what I do.”

Wade thought about it, then looked at the car. “How strong are you?”

Spider-Man followed his gaze, getting the idea. “Strong enough to flip this car, if needed.”

Wade suddenly made a strange noise and bit his fist. Spider-Man raised an eyebrow and leaned back a little bit. “What was that?”

Wade shook his head. “Nothing, that was just probably the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Don’t worry about it.”

Spider-Man hit him. “Not the time, Wade!”

“So there is a time?” Wade said, hopeful.

“Wha–no! No. Just–get us out this.” Spider-Man said, slightly flustered.

Wade nodded. “Right. Fight now, sex talk later.”

Spider-Man hit him again, trying to ignore the blush that rose up in his cheeks. “Just go and get shot and give me a signal to flip the damn car.” he said, shoving him towards the fight.

“That wasn’t a no.” Wade winked at him, then vaulted over the hood and into the fray.

Spider-Man hated him.

The gunfire immediately increased when Wade went over, causing Spider-Man to duck lower and relying on his hearing to try and figure out what was going on.

Wade was helping with that, at least. He was shouting out everything he was doing, which at first Spider-Man thought he was just doing because he was weird, then he realized he was doing it for him. He was keeping Spider-Man aware of his location and how it was going.

“Eighteen people, with–ow, fuck, my _knee_ –guns n’ shit, they’re breaking into Beatrice and fucking up her precious paint job–BEATRICE, NO, NOT THE TIRES–and now we’re down to fourteen and we’re down three kneecaps and one elbow and this is going just wonderfully, Spidey, and now we’re down to _eleven_ and–ow, goddammit, really, the foot?–get ready, Spidey!”

Spider-Man felt his spider-sense alert him to something to his right, then one of the hitmen came flying over the back of the car, blood flying from both of his arms. He landed pretty close to Spider-Man, who gently nudged him away.

Suddenly, Wade jumped on top of the car and scared the absolute _shit_ out of Spider-Man. “You ready?”

Spider-Man very nearly punched him in the face for scaring him, but kept his cool. “Yeah, just tell me when you’re ready.”

“Any time, any place, baby.” Wade said, winking.

Spider-Man gave him a flat look, and Wade eventually conceded.

“When I say ‘Jeff’, flip the car as hard as you can that way–” Wade jabbed a thumb behind him and slightly to the right, “–and head for Beatrice.”

Spider-Man nodded, and Wade headed back into the fight. Spider-Man got into position, and Wade started up his talking again.

“Alright, here we go, nine left. Two are trying to break into Beatrice again, those mother _fuckers–_ YOU LEAVE HER TAIL PIPE ALONE! You sons o’ bitches, she was a _virgin!_ Okay, it’s fine, it’s fine, now you guys aren’t virgins, either. That had to hurt. Alrighty, down to six, moving backwards, here we go–JEFF!”

Spider-Man snapped into action, grabbing onto the bottom of the car and flipping it over as hard as he could, mostly just hoping that Wade hadn’t lined it up so he was about to squash six people with an old blue minivan.

The car flipped over twice, nearly crashing into four people who saw it just in time and hit the deck as it sailed over them. Spider-Man took the opportunity to charge at them, sending out two webs at the two on the outside and pulling them together, putting all four of them into an awkward dogpile. When they were trying to get up, Spider-Man quickly webbed them all down to the concrete, making sure they couldn’t fire at him.

Wade shot the two next to him in the knees, declared them unable to fight, then walked over to Spider-Man. He looked strangely giddy for someone who had just disabled about fifteen people.

“Oh my god, that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. You flipped a car!”

Spider-Man was tempted to hit him again, but it was hard to see a spot on him that wasn’t soaked in blood. He wasn’t sure if it was Wade’s or someone else’s, but the number of holes in his hoodie made it seem like it was a combination of both. “Don’t make it weird, Wade. What the hell was all this?”

“How should I know? You saw it first. Good job, by the way.”

“You were busy, I have spider-sense. It was kind of hard not to notice first.”

Wade suddenly gasped. “The stuff! We have to go get it!”

“Is it even intact?” Spider-Man asked, looking back at the shopping center. “Wait, is anything intact in there? There were other shoppers!” he exclaimed, suddenly panicking. “Oh my god, how many people were–”

“Easy, Spidey! They only took aim at us, and there were only like ten other people there, they were all fine. Property damage, but that’s it. I promise.”

Spider-Man sighed in relief. “Okay, okay. I’ll go get the clothes and the food, you figure out what to do with _that._ ” he said, gesturing at the SUV. The back windshield was broken, there were scratches and bullet dents _everywhere,_ The trunk looked like it had been busted open, and one of the fancy file boxes was on the ground, but it was intact and still there, so that was something.

“We might have to switch cars.” Wade admitted, looking around. “How do you feel about–”

Suddenly, a gunshot cut Wade off, ringing out from behind them, where Spider-Man had webbed down the four gunmen. One of them had broken free and taken a shot. Spider-Man instinctively ducked, covering his face with his arms, but it didn’t hit him. When he realized he was okay, he uncovered himself and shot a web before they could fire again, clogging their gun.

Spider-Man frowned. “Damn, I really thought I got–”

Beside him, Wade suddenly crumpled to the ground.

Peter froze, staring down at his limp figure. “Wade?”

Wade didn’t move. A pool of blood began to collect next to his head. Peter felt his heart start to beat faster. “Wade. Wade, wake up.”

Wade didn’t move.

Peter started to breathe faster. His heart started to pound so hard he thought it might just break out of his chest entirely. Wade wasn’t moving. Why wasn’t Wade moving? He said he could heal from anything. Shouldn’t he be awake? Be healing?

Be alive?

Peter fell to his knees and shook Wade by the shoulders. “Wade. Wake up. Please wake up. I’ll flip a car for you again. I’ll let you sexualize me while do it. Please, please, _please_ just wake up.”

Wade still wasn’t moving. He wasn’t moving because he’d been shot in the _head_ by I guy Spider-Man was supposed to take down but he was _sloppy_ and now Wade was dead and Peter can’t breathe and how did he let it happen _again?_

“C’mon. Wake up. Please. Please, come on, Gwen, just–” Peter cut himself off when suddenly, Wade moved.

Wade’s leg had twitched. Peter was sure of it. He looked down, staring at it. It twitched again, thirty seconds later, and Wade made a strange, strangled groan.

Slowly but surely, Wade was starting to come back to life. He started to twitch more, take hitched breaths, and after five _painful_ minutes of watching him look like Frankenstein’s monster, Wade took a full breath and started to sit up.

“Wade? Wade, can you hear me?”

It was incredibly faint, but Wade nodded. Peter nearly sobbed in relief, and as Wade finally reached a sitting position, Peter threw his arms around Wade’s shoulders and hugged him.

After a moment of shock–or just being slow because he was dead two minutes ago, Peter wasn’t sure–Wade slowly put his arms around Peter’s waist and hugged him back. “Hey, Spidey, wh–”

Peter cut him off, pulling back and looking him in the eye. “You were dead. That guy shot you–I was supposed to take him down, but I must have _missed_ or something, and I’m so sorry–and you fucking _died_ in the parking lot of this stupid Midwestern shopping center and I’m so, so _sorry,_ Wade.”

“Hey, Spidey, it’s okay. I do have a question, though.”

Peter nodded. “Okay, what?”

Wade hesitated for a moment, looking down, then took a breath and looked Peter in the eyes again.

“Who’s Gwen?”


	5. Hour Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one ever said coming back to life was easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're gonna pretend this didn't take me two months okay

“What?” Peter asked, wholly bewildered.

“Who’s Gwen?” Wade repeated.

Peter blinked, trying to process. A minute ago, Wade had been dead. Like,  _ dead.  _ He had been on the ground, not breathing and so  _ still  _ and Peter was pretty sure he’d cried over this stupid guy he’d met two days ago because he was  _ dead _ but then he’d come _ back to life  _ and now, somehow…

Now he was asking about  _ Gwen?  _

Peter was sure he hadn’t said her name to Wade. He’d been yelling Wade’s name a few minutes ago. After all, it had been Wade dying on the ground in front of him, not–not–

Peter shook his head, chasing away the images that start to flood his mind. He opened his eyes–when did he close them?–and looked at Wade.

Wade was still looking at him expectantly; he had asked a question, after all. Peter still had his arms over Wade’s shoulders; Wade’s hands were lightly resting on Peter’s hips from when Peter had hugged him. When Peter looked down at him, he squeezed lightly, like a strange reassurance.

“Spidey? You okay?”

Peter pushed a slow breath out of his nose. “How–how do you know that name?”

Wade tilted his head, confused. “You said it. When I was recovering from that  _ stupid motherfucker shooting me– _ ” he spits the last part in the general direction of the pile of goons, “–you said my name a bunch of times, but towards the end, you said ‘Gwen.’”

Peter swallowed–it felt like it stuck in his throat. 

It had been  _ ages  _ since he’d actually said her name out loud. It hurt too much. But apparently, seeing Wade–seeing another  _ friend _ dying in front of him–had hurt him more than her name could.

Peter shook his head as a response, not really trusting himself to use his words. He could feel heat pricking behind his eyes.

Wade nodded back, somehow understanding. The hands on Peter’s side tightened for a moment, and then, before Peter could pull away, Wade wrapped his arms around Peter’s middle and pulled him into another hug. 

Peter didn’t move for a moment, he just let himself feel Wade’s arms around him, and feel Wade’s head on his shoulder. Then, slowly, he hugged back, re-wrapping his arms around Wade’s shoulders and squeezing him a little harder than was probably necessary.

“She was a...friend. My girlfriend, for a while.” he muttered into Wade’s shoulder, the words coming out before he could stop them. 

Wade tensed around him slightly, but didn’t let go. If anything, he hugged him harder.

“She–she fell. It was my fault, and I didn’t catch her in time.” Peter said, slowly realizing that this might be the first time he’s said it out loud. “One of my friends tried to kill her. He went insane, just like his dad. I couldn’t...I couldn’t save them.”

“Did you try to save her?” Wade asked.

Peter blinked. “What?”

“Did you try to save her?” Wade repeated. “Try as hard as you could?”

“Of course I did.” Peter snapped, slightly angry that Wade would even bring up the possibility that he didn’t. “I loved her.”

“Then it wasn’t your fault, Spidey. You can’t save everyone.”

Peter sniffed. “I didn’t want to save everyone. I just wanted to save her.” he whispered.

Wade nodded against him. “I know. But sometimes you can’t. And it sucks.”

Peter laughed wetly. “Yeah, it does.”

Wade didn’t respond to him for a while after that; Peter didn’t really think he needed to. The silence was strangely comfortable. It had been far too long since Peter had been able to just sit with someone else. Even if it was with a slightly-insane man in the middle of a parking lot in Ohio while surrounded by the smell of gunpowder and the distant sound of sirens.

Wait, fuck.

“Wade, I hear sirens.” Peter announced, pulling back.

At that, Wade suddenly snapped into something more serious, getting to his feet and pulling Peter up with him. He looked around at the absolute disaster around them. “Grab the food and the clothes. I’m gonna see if Beatrice still runs.”

Peter nodded and ran off to collect the items. He found them fairly quickly and headed back to the car. When he got back, Wade had managed to get the car started, but it was still in pretty rough shape. The sirens were louder now; the cops would be here any minute.

Peter winced at the sight of Beatrice. She was covered in bullet holes and dents. One of the tail lights was shattered. “Wade, we’re totally gonna get pulled over for this.”

Wade shrugged from his spot under the hood of the car. “We’ll survive. I got a plan.” he said, then closed the hood. “Get in.”

Peter did as instructed, throwing the food and clothes into the backseat. Wade closed the hood, seeming satisfied, and hopped into the driver’s seat.

“Ready?” Wade asked.

Peter nodded back, and Wade pulled the car out and they sped off, leaving the mall and the sirens behind.

Once they were back on the road, Peter was starting to feel the effects of the past hour catch up to him. He was  _ tired.  _ At this point, it was close to normal-people’s dinnertime, and it had been two days since Peter had slept in a bed.

“Hey, Wade, what’s the plan here?”

Wade looked over at him. “What do you mean?”

“For tonight. Sleeping.”

Wade considered. “If you want, we can get a motel room.”

Peter brightened. “Really?”

Wade nodded. “Sure, Spidey. We have to leave the car overnight at a mechanic’s anyway.”

Peter smiled at him under his mask; Wade did the same back. For a moment, Peter wished he could see Wade smile without it. The problem of the masks was starting to become a real problem. Peter was sick of wearing his. It was gross with sweat from fighting and snot from crying, and it was getting claustrophobic. He didn’t know if he could make it through the week not being able to take it off.

Looking over at Wade, he considered another factor. He was sick of not seeing Wade’s face when he talked to him. At first, it had been nice having the masks as a barrier–the less he knew about Wade, the better–but now, he wanted it gone.

He wondered what Wade looked like under his mask. Considering how Wade had been so open to telling Peter his name, he wondered why he still kept the mask on. It was a strange mystery, just like the rest of him. He’d never seen or heard anything about his face–he doesn’t even think any of the Avengers have any idea what he looks like, either. 

Maybe he could be the first.

Wade suddenly looked over at him, breaking his line of thought. “Whatcha thinkin’ bout, Spidey?”

Peter shrugged, then pulled off his mask. The first breath of air that finally didn’t smell like a dirty mask was  _ wonderful _ .

Wade froze, staring at him with an expression that Peter couldn’t make out under the mask. Peter stared back, starting to feel his cheeks get hot under Wade’s gaze.

“What?” Peter asked, feeling suddenly self-conscious. His hair probably looked atrocious.

Wade just kept looking at him. “You took your mask off.”

Peter shrugged. “It was stuffy.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.” Wade said, still sounding dazed.

Peter shifted in his seat; being stared at so openly (and for so long) was a strange feeling. “Do I look that bad?” he asked, looking down at his lap.

Wade shook his head, finally seeming to snap out of it, but not looking away. “No.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “No?”

Wade abruptly turned back to the front. “No.”

Peter stared at him for a minute, then rolled his eyes and turned back to the the road. “You’re weird,” he muttered, then turned up the radio and settled in for the ride.

* * *

 

It’s the middle of the night when they stop, pulling into a small auto shop in Elkhart, Indiana. 

Wade pulled neatly into the garage and killed the engine, stretching his arms out in front of him and yawning. “I’m making you drive next.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I offered to take over an hour ago.”

Wade ignored him, choosing to get out of the car instead. Peter chuckled and followed, walking around the front of the car and over to Wade, who was leaning against the driver’s-side door and fiddling with his phone. Peter leaned against the car next to him. “What’s the plan?”

“You wait here until I pay our friendly mechanic friends, and then we’ll go find a motel.”

Peter looked out at the night sky. “How are you getting someone to fix the car this late? It’s past midnight.”

Wade shrugged. “I’ve got...friends.”

Peter raised a very suspicious eyebrow. Wade just grinned back. “You’re cute when you do that.” he said, pushing himself off the car. “Just wait here, don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

Peter half-heartedly kicked at him and shouted, “Asshole!” as he walked away, then huffed and settled back against the car. Wade gave him finger-guns back as he left the garage, turning the corner and heading to the front of the building.

Peter rolled his eyes, shifting so he was slightly more comfortable and tipping his head back to lean against the slightly-shattered window. It was honestly a miracle that they hadn’t been pulled over, between the atrocious state of the car and Wade’s terrifying driving. Peter didn’t know if it was from exhaustion or mask-blindness or what, but Wade had nearly crashed the car at  _ least  _ five times on the way.

The horrible driving was a bit strange, if Peter thought about it. Wade made jokes and was probably slightly insane, but Peter hadn’t ever  felt unsafe with him behind the wheel so far. He’d even seen Wade drive when they were in combat, and Wade hadn’t even come close to anything. But driving here, it felt like they were lucky they’d arrived in one piece. Wade had seemed...distracted, though Peter didn’t know by what.

A few minutes later, Wade came back, whistling and twirling a knife in one hand like that was a normal thing to do. He flipped it closed and put it in his hoodie pocket as he got close to Peter. “All set. Ready to sleep in a real bed?”

“ _ Yes. _ ”

Wade laughed and opened the back door to grab his duffel bag. Peter had already stuffed some of his new clothes into it before they’d arrived. “Off we go.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Are we walking?”

“There’s a motel down the street,” Wade said, pointing vaguely outside. “It’s about half a mile.”

Peter nodded, and they headed out, Wade leading the way. It was a surprisingly nice night, and Peter found that he enjoyed the walk with Wade. They found the motel easily enough, and though it was slightly shabby, it was still far better than trying to sleep curled up in the front seat again. They walked into the lobby and Wade held the credit card out to Peter to check them in.

“Why do I have to do it?”

“Because you’re not wearing a mask and I’m paying,” Wade answered with a smile. “One room, two beds.”

Peter rolled his eyes and snatched the card from Wade’s fingers. “I get first shower,” he announced as he walked away and checked them in. The woman at the counter smiled nicely at him, giving him the key without a problem and wishing him a good night.

Wade grinned at him as he walked back, dangling the keys from his fingers. Together, they walked back outside and up to their door. Peter opened it quickly and toed off his shoes as they walked in. Wade immediately threw the bag down by one of the beds and started to poke around the corners of the room.

“Are you ever not paranoid?” Peter asked, watching him complete his circle.

“Nope,” Wade answered, turning to grin at him.

“Fair enough,” Peter shrugged, then jumped and belly-flopped onto the nearest bed. It was slightly dusty, it felt wholly unsturdy, and the mattress springs were poking him all over, but it was  _ heaven.  _ He groaned into the mattress, making Wade laugh behind him. A moment later, the bed dipped next to him with Wade’s weight. Peter rolled onto his back so he could look at him.

Wade had sat down facing away from him, and when Peter rolled over, he leaned back so his head fell onto Peter’s stomach. “This is comfortable.” he commented.

Peter rolled his eyes. “You’re the worst.”

Wade laughed again, vibrating the whole bed. Peter laughed and shoved him off, standing up. He went over to the bag and pulled out clothes to sleep in. “I’m gonna shower. Don’t do anything illegal while I’m gone.”

Wade lazily flipped him off as he walked to the bathroom. Peter flipped him off right back as he closed the door and locked it.

It took Peter a moment to figure out the shower, but he got it running soon enough. He stripped down quickly, pulling off his jeans and shirt when he caught a glance of himself in the mirror.

Admittedly, he looked a bit rough. He was a little bruised from the fights he and Wade had gotten into, he still had a bandage on his arm from getting shot (which Wade had been making him change every six hours or so), and he was just filthy in general from two brawls and not showering for two days. When Wade had claimed he didn’t look bad earlier, he’d been lying. Peter looked like shit.

Turning away from the mirror, Peter stripped down the rest of the way and gently removed the bandage from his arm. It was healing over nicely, but still nagged at him if he moved his arm too quickly or extended it too far. He stepped into the shower and nearly groaning at how good the hot water felt; it was exactly what his sore muscles needed.

He showered maybe a little slower than necessary, enjoying the hot water and the slightly-better-than-his-apartment water pressure. He took his time washing himself off with the crappy motel soap and shampoo, both of which smelled faintly of lavender. He decided it had been long enough when his fingers became slightly pruny. He shut the water off and got out, grabbing a scratchy white towel off of the rack across the bathroom. He toweled himself off quickly and put on his briefs and pants. He threw his towel around his neck, gathered up the rest of the clothes off the floor, and went back out into the room shirtless.

Wade was lounging on the bed closest to the bathroom, laying down with his feet kicked up on top of the headboard and his head pointed towards the end of the bed. Peter couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or not–his mask was still on. Either way, when Peter came in, Wade turned his head to look at him. Peter gave him a brief smile and walked around to sit on the other bed, ruffling the towel through his hair. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

Wade didn’t get up; when Peter looked up, he was still staring at him from his upside-down spot on the bed. With his mask on, it was hard to make out his expression, but it felt strangely similar to when Wade had stared at him in the car. Peter felt himself start to blush again.

He threw his towel at Wade’s head. “Go shower.”

Wade caught it off-handedly and set it down on the bed next to him. He swung his legs down towards Peter and walked over, stopping about a foot in front of him. Peter looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. At this height, he came up to Wade’s chest.

“How’s the arm?” Wade asked, looking down at it. His gloved hand moved slightly by his side, like Wade was reaching out but stopped himself.

“It’s fine,” Peter answered slowly. Wade was being weird. “You’re being weird.”

Wade took a small step back. “I’m gonna–go shower,” he said, then practically ran to the bathroom, grabbing the towel on the way, shutting the door and locking it with a click. A few moments later, the shower started up again.

Peter froze on his spot on the bed, wholly bewildered. What the hell was going on with Wade? Peter knew he was weird, but not  _ this  _ weird.

He ran a hand through his hair and stood, walking over to the duffel bag. He stopped halfway there, looking over at the bathroom door. Wade hadn’t grabbed any clothes to change into. Peter sighed and grabbed out a fresh set, walking over to the door and knocking twice. “Wade?”

“What?” Wade snapped from the other side of the door. “Is something wrong?”

Peter flinched at his tone. It wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t exactly friendly, either. “You didn’t grab any clothes. I grabbed some for you.”

“Oh.” Wade sounded surprised. “Just–just leave them there.”

Peter frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Just leave it, Spidey. Go to bed.”

“Wade–”

“Go to bed, Spidey,” Wade repeated, firmer.

“Okay, fine,” Peter said softly, putting the clothes down by the floor. He walked back over to the bag, not knowing what to make of Wade’s behavior. Working mostly on autopilot, he fished out the bandages and gauze from the bag, re-wrapped his arm, put everything back, and put on the soft graphic t-shirt Wade had bought him what felt like weeks ago.

Peter went back over to his bed and stretched out. Today felt like it had lasted ten years, and he was  _ exhausted,  _ but at the same time, he felt better than he had in a long time. He had something to fight for today, even if it was something as stupid as an SUV named Beatrice and a crazy mercenary. He hadn’t felt that way in...in too long. He hadn’t felt much of anything in too long, and today, he’d almost felt too much. 

Peter had felt exhilarated fighting in that parking lot with Wade today. It’d felt  _ good  _ to have someone by his side again. He had grown too accustomed to being on his own. Even if Gwen had never fought with him, he had still always felt like she was with him, on the sidelines. Somehow, with Wade today, it had felt like that again. Like he wasn’t alone.

And then Wade had gotten shot and everything had come crashing down again. Peter had been so, so sure that Wade had been dead. He had sworn to himself he couldn’t let anyone get hurt again, and he’d failed. He’d failed  _ horribly.  _

Peter scrubbed a hand over his face and pushed the image of Wade’s lifeless body out of his head. It was in the past. It was only about ten hours in the past, but in the past nonetheless. Now Wade was alive again, and he was in the shower, and he was acting weird as fuck. 

Suddenly, the shower switched off, as if Wade had heard Peter’s thoughts. Peter sat up, turning towards the door. A few seconds later, the lock clicked and the door opened, revealing Wade in the clothes Peter had picked for him. Peter hadn’t even heard him open the door to grab them. He still had his mask, gloves, and hoodie on, to Peter’s surprise.

“Are you going to sleep with your mask on?” Peter asked.

“Yes,” Wade answered, walking over to the bag and shoving his old clothes in.

Peter frowned at him. “Are you sure? It’d be way more comfortable to take it off.”

“It’s fine, Spidey,” Wade said, voice clipped.

“Wade–”

“It’s  _ fine,  _ Spidey.” Wade snapped. “I’m not taking it off.”

Peter huffed, getting to his feet. “Why the hell not? I already know your name, what difference does your face make? You’ll be more comfortable, and we can actually talk face to face.”

Wade pushed a harsh breath out of his nose. “It makes a lot of difference, Spidey. I’m not taking it off.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Wade, your face seriously can’t be that bad. You can’t spend the entire week in the mask.”

Wade glared at him. “I can do whatever the hell I want,” he said darkly.

“Well what you’re doing is  _ stupid, _ ” Peter snapped, walking over and poking Wade in the chest. “I mean, seriously, what is your problem with this? You don’t even have anything to hide! Who cares?”

“ _ I do. _ ” Wade said, taking a step towards him and looming over Peter. “You don’t know anything.”

Peter tipped his chin up, refusing to back down. “I know what it’s like to watch you die,” he said defiantly.

Wade faltered for a moment; Peter took the opportunity to press further.

“And I know what it’s like to watch you come back to life.”

Wade looked away for a moment, flexing his fingers at his sides.

“And you know what? It was fucking gross, Wade.”

Wade’s gaze snapped back to Peter’s face. “What?”

“It was  _ disgusting.  _ There was blood everywhere, your head was at this weird angle, and you were  _ dead,  _ Wade. It was awful. And I’m still here, and I’m not wearing a mask.”

Wade just stared at him, not moving.

Peter sighed. “Look, just...do what you want, Wade. I guess I don’t care. But I’m not easy to scare off, and we both know that being in a mask for any longer than absolutely necessary sucks. Just–be comfortable.” he finished, then walked back to his bed.

After a moment, Wade followed, getting into his own bed. Peter reached in between them and flicked off the lamp on the nightstand, plunging them into darkness.

“Good night, Wade.”

Wade didn’t reply; Peter wasn’t really sure he’d expected him to. Peter rolled over, facing away from Wade, and tried to let sleep take him. It wasn’t hard; it was nearly two in the morning, his body was tired, and he was finally in a real bed again.

It was a few minutes later when Wade responded. It was quiet, quiet enough that Peter thought maybe didn’t want him to hear it, but he heard it nonetheless.

“I’m sorry, Spidey.”

Peter doesn’t understand, and he falls asleep before he can respond.

* * *

 

He dreams of Wade’s death over and over that night. He sees him fall down again and again, the gunshot echoing louder and louder each time. He screams each time, even though part of him knows Wade woke up in the end.

Eventually, Wade’s death morphs into something else. Suddenly, he’s not falling to the ground, he’s falling down, through the concrete, farther and farther, and Peter throws web after web, trying to catch him. He shouts Wade’s name, tries to get him to wake up, but it doesn’t  _ work,  _ and Wade’s falling down, he’s falling down the tower, and Peter can’t catch him, he can’t get there fast enough. He watches as Wade turns into something else as he falls; he gets smaller, thinner, he turns into  _ Gwen.  _ Peter gets frantic; can’t get to her fast enough, he won’t be  _ fast enough, he’s never fast enough to catch her– _

Peter woke up with a shout, yelling into the darkness. It took him a moment to remember where he was, but eventually he remembers the scratchy fabric of the motel comforter and he gets his bearings. He reached over to flick on the light, looking over to Wade’s bed.

“Sorry, Wade, I–”

Peter cut himself off, freezing in place. Wade wasn’t in bed.

Peter looked around the room. There was no sign of Wade. The duffel bag was still by the door; there was a pile of cash on top that wasn’t there before, along with a key to the room and a piece of paper.

Peter jumped out of bed and snatched the note off of the bag. He unfolded it as quickly as he could, trying to ignore the leftover shaking in his hands. The note was short and to the point, scrawled in absolutely  _ awful  _ handwriting:

_ I shouldn’t have brought you. The cash should be enough to get you back to NYC and pay your rent for a month, probably. I’m sorry, Spidey. Go home. _

Peter dropped the note, looking around the empty room in disbelief.

Wade was gone.

  
  



	6. Hour Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you find someone who doesn't want to be found?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haaaaaaaaaaa I haven't even edited this yet let's see how many mistakes y'all can find

Peter sat there, staring at the pile of money, the duffel bag, and the note for far too long. He couldn’t believe Wade had just _left him here._ He’d just left him in this stupid, dingy motel in fucking _Indiana._ It didn’t feel real.

Then again, none of this ever really had.

Slowly, Peter got to his feet, starting to pace around the small room. He took in the details around him–Wade’s bed was neatly made, the bathroom was spotless, none of Wade’s belongings could be seen anywhere. Save for the duffel bag, it was like he’d never even been there at all. The door leading outside was locked and latched, and the curtains were drawn shut. He couldn’t see anything outside, and some part of him suspected Wade had done that on purpose.

Running a hand through his hair, Peter huffed and walked back to the bag, picking it up and setting in on his bed. He set the cash and note to the side and opened it up. Inside were all of Peter’s clothes, along with his suit, mask, and phone (which had been turned off since they left New York). Wade’s things had been mostly removed, but he had left a few things they hadn’t bought for Peter: deodorant, his toothbrush, a few pairs of socks. Closing the bag, he reached for the cash.

From Peter’s estimate, the stack of cash on top of the bag had about two thousand dollars in it. Wade was right; it was more than enough to get him home and even pay rent. He could just take it and go home, pretend it never happened. Part of him had to admit, it was tempting. He could just go back, take the money and leave Wade and his antics behind. Let him deal with the crazy people after them. After all, it seemed to be what Wade wanted. Peter could just go back home, push it from his mind, and move on. If he wanted to, he’d never have to even think about Wade again.

Peter shook his head, dropping the cash down onto the bed. No, no. He’d promised Wade he was going to see this through–and Spider-Man didn’t break his promises. He wasn’t going to let Wade just abandon this.

Peter glanced over at the old alarm clock between the beds. It was nearly three in the morning–he’d fallen asleep somewhere around midnight, and they’d dropped off the car around eleven. If Wade’s plan was to finish the trip, he’d still have to go get Beatrice, who was undoubtedly still at the shop. Peter suspected that Wade had planned to get the car ready by the early morning–he wouldn’t expect Peter to wake up at three in the morning and go after him.

So that’s exactly what he was going to do.

It took him about five minutes to change clothes, brush his teeth (and pretending it wasn’t gross to use Wade’s toothbrush), make his bed, and head out the door, locking it and taking the key with him. When he got outside, he swung the bag over his shoulder and headed out into the night.

The shop was a straight shot from the motel–all Peter had to do was follow the main road. At this time of night, it was _completely_ empty, making it feel like Peter was even more alone in the world than he already was. Even the streetlights felt isolating; without a stream of cars going by, there were large patches of darkness all over. Peter was used to New York; this place felt too empty, too quiet. Shivering from something other than cold, he gripped the strap of the bag and walked faster.

When he finally arrived back at the auto shop, the garage doors were closed, but the lights were on inside, making golden squares on the pavement. Taking that as a good sign, Peter walked up to the large metal doors and quietly climbed up the nearest one, peering into one of its windows.

The window was dirty, so much so that Peter could only see about half of the room, but it was enough. There were four men inside, all gathered around Beatrice, but not working on her. They were talking to each other, and they seemed slightly angry, but Peter couldn’t make out the words–he figured it would probably be something about cars he didn’t understand, anyway. None of them noticed him. From the looks of the exterior, significant progress had been made on Beatrice, but it was still nowhere near ready.

Wade was nowhere in sight.

Quietly detaching himself from the window, Peter considered Wade’s absence. If he wasn’t here, that meant he was likely in one of three places: he was either inside somewhere Peter couldn’t see, he had gone to buy new supplies, or he’d already skipped town and was truly gone.

Peter frowned. No, he wasn’t gone. Peter would find him. He had the advantage here–it was still likely that Wade didn’t know he’d left the motel. He’d find him.

First, he had to check the building. That was the easiest option to eliminate. It wasn’t a very large building–the two-car garage was attached to a small lobby that seemed to have some sort of small apartment on top. Maybe Wade was in there.

Peter walked over to the lobby; it was completely dark inside, but the windows upstairs seemed to have some light shining through. He looked around behind him, double-checking that he was still alone, before he removed his mask from his jacket pocket and put it on. Feeling more secure, he gripped the brick and pulled himself up to the second floor. He reached the nearest window quickly and peered inside.

His original guess was correct–it _was_ intended to be some sort of living space, but it was certainly not being used for _living._

There were guns _everywhere._ Covering the tables, filling up the cases attached to the walls, laying on every surface Spider-Man could see. It wasn’t just guns, either; he could see weapons of all kinds scattered about, illuminated by the sole shadeless lamp in the far corner. There was one man in the room, but he was busy watching tv on the couch with a handgun casually resting on his chest and what appeared to be a _land mine_ sitting precariously on the arm rest behind his head. He didn’t notice Spider-Man outside his window.

It was a miracle that anyone who walked into this building made it out alive.

Trying desperately to ignore...whatever it was he just saw, Spider-Man forced himself to focus. All that mattered for now was the fact that Wade wasn’t in there, which meant it was time to explore option two.

He climbed down the wall gently and started to make his way to the _extremely_ sketchy-looking convenience store located across the street. About half of the glowing letters on the front of the building had gone dark. When he walked inside, he noticed that about half the lights on the ceiling were out, as well.

A quick glance around the room showed that the only other person in the store was a very bored-looking bearded man cleaning up what appeared to be a chip display that had been knocked over. He looked up, saw Spider-Man, and rolled his eyes. Spider-Man frowned at him and walked over.

“Excuse me, have you seen–”

“Look, man,” the cashier cut him off, “I don’t care if you’re on the way to fight aliens or what, I’m not dealin’ with any more of you masked freaks. Just get your shit and get out.”

Spider-Man’s eyes widened. “You saw another guy with a mask?”

“He knocked over the display and pointed a fucking _gun_ when I tried to yell at him.”

That sounded like Wade. “Do you know where he went?”

The guy gave him an annoyed look. “He left about ten minutes ago.”

Spider-Man huffed. Ten minutes was a long time, especially for someone as tactical as Deadpool was. Maybe not enough to get away completely, but enough to make it hard for Spider-Man to track him down. He thanked the cashier and left, stuffing one of his twenties into the tip jar sitting on the counter on his way out.

He was officially back to square one.

As he stepped out into the street once again, he tried to make a plan. Normally, when he looked for someone, he’d try and get into their heads, think of places a lowly, stupid criminal would hide in New York. Either that, or he’d get help from Tony or, when she’d been willing to help, Gwen. She’d always had a knack for getting what she wanted, and information was no different.

Spider-Man sighed. What would she do, if she were here? Other than smack him in the head for going on this goddamn trip in the first place, of course.

_Probably go ask the guys in the shop if they’ve seen him, dumbass. All you did was look._

Spider-Man smiled briefly to himself and set out back towards the shop. This time, when he arrived, he knocked on the door, hitting the old wood with three even taps. He decided to keep his mask on, hoping maybe it could help make his story of being a friend of Deadpool’s more believable. He also left his bag on the roof, just in case.

The room quieted for a few moments before the door opened, revealing a large man with dark hair and a scruffy beard. He looked Spider-Man over for a long minute before he spoke. “What the hell d’you want?”

“I was wondering if you’d seen my friend? Deadpool? He was wearing a mask, sort of like mine.” Spider-Man said, gesturing at his face. “Red and black?”

The man cocked his head at him. “Maybe, what’s it to you?” he said roughly.

Spider-Man cocked his head back. “Are you sure? I mean, it is his car your fixing.” he pointed out, smug.

 _If he thinks you’re on the offensive, he won’t help you,_ her voice echoed in his head. Softer this time, he quickly added, “I’m just worried about him.”

The man seemed to debate his response. Behind them, a shout of, “Who the fuck is it?” echoed through the garage.

“A ‘friend’ of Deadpool’s,” the man threw over his shoulder in response. Spider-Man wasn’t entirely sure he liked his tone.

To his surprise, however, the man stepped back a moment later, allowing Spider-Man to come in. After a second of hesitation, he accepted the invitation, stepping in and taking in his surroundings. Car parts everywhere, the faint smell of gas, and, fainter still, gunpowder. Four men in the room with him, including the one at the door–every single one of them looked (understandably) suspicious of him. Beatrice in the middle, looking much better than before, but not yet ready. None of it seemed particularly odd or threatening, but something in the air was setting him on edge. He let the middle finger on his left hand sit on the trigger of his web-shooter as he walked in.

“He’s asking if any of us have seen Deadpool around,” the man who held the door said from behind him as he closed the door. It shut with a dull thud. “Says he’s a friend.”

Spider-Man felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The man’s tone was far from friendly. When he glanced behind him, he could see that everyone in the room was holding some kind of metal, heavy tool.

_Maybe now would be a good time to put your other finger on the trigger, too, Peter. Just a thought._

“Well, I guess he’s not here, so I’ll just–” Spider-Man started, turning back towards the door.

The man who let him in locked the door with a loud click.

Spider-Man froze. He was surrounded, and in cramped quarters. There was only about six feet of space between the wall behind Spider-Man and the other car in the garage. He could win this fight, but it might get a little messy. Though he wasn’t entirely sure _why_ he had to fight at all.

One of the men, a blonde that Spider-Man recognizes from earlier in the night, when he and Deadpool dropped off the car, cocked his head at him. “I remember you. You were with him.”

“You know, I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” Spider-Man said.

The man gave him a flat look. “You’re in the middle of Indiana. Two masked men walking in here in the same day is more action than we get in a year.”

_That guy, 1. Spider-Man, 0._

The blonde grinned and  pulled out a handgun from behind his back.

Spider-Man tried a different approach, not taking his eyes off of the gun. “You’re fixing his car, aren’t you? What happened?”

“What _happened,_ ” the one who locked the door snapped, “is that Deadpool comes in with this ridiculous order to fix his goddamn wreck of a car in the middle of the night, then calls four hours later to cancel it at _three in the fucking morning._ ”

Spider-Man blinked. “So you’re gonna shoot _me_ because Deadpool kept you up for a night?” he demanded.

“No,” the blonde said, aiming his gun between Spider-Man’s eyes _,_ “we’re gonna shoot you because your dear friend Deadpool didn’t pay up.”

Spider-Man sighed. That sounded about right.

A moment later, he got that horrible tingling feeling in the back of his mind, flashing like a big red _ALERT_ symbol in his head.

Something very, very bad was about to happen.

On instinct, he ducked, just in time to avoid the bullet fired into the space where his head had been. The gunshot echoed around the small space, making Spider-Man’s ears ring. From his spot squatting on the ground, he kicked a leg out, hitting the blonde in the ankle and making him fall forward. As went down, Spider-Man got back to his feet, landing a punch to the man’s nose.

The man yelped, flailing backwards onto his ass. He nearly collided with the man behind him, who jumped to the side just in time and took a swing at Spider-Man with a _sledgehammer._

It was too low to duck, so Spider-Man was forced to jump back a couple feet, nearly colliding with the side of the car. The man wound up to swing again, but Spider-Man was faster, throwing a web at the sledgehammer and yanking it out of his hands. He caught it easily enough and threw it like a hatchet at the man blocking the door. It wasn’t a particularly pretty throw, but it still hit its target square in the chest, the man making a noise of pain to accompany the sick sound of his ribs cracking. He crumpled to the ground.

The man standing next to him–a muscled guy with a ginger buzz cut–looked at his comrade in shock for a moment before he held up what appeared to be a hatchet and ran at Spider-Man. He swung once at Spider-Man’s left shoulder; Spider-Man leaned right and aimed a punch for the middle of the man’s chest. To his surprise, the man-bun dodged it, throwing a shoulder back to get out of the way and aiming another hatchet swing, this time aiming at Spider-Man’s leg.

He was faster than the others–faster than Spider-Man was expecting. The second time, he wasn’t quite fast enough; he managed to avoid the worst of it, but the hatchet slices through his lower thigh, opening up a decent gash. Spider-Man let out a shout of pain, punching the ginger hard and fast in his side, sending him slamming into the car. When he hit the ground, Spider-Man angrily webbed all of his limbs to the concrete.

Spider-Man swore, looking down at his leg. There was a large tear in his new jeans and warm blood staining what was left of the pant leg. It fucking _hurt_.

The sight of his blood seemed to re-inspire his attackers. He had taken out two of them–one with a sledgehammer and one with webs–but one still had a gun and the other was holding a rather rusty pocket knife. Both got to their feet and gave him feral grins.

The one with the knife lunged at him first. He dove at Spider-Man and, unsurprisingly, aimed for his wound. Spider-Man dodged the first hit, shifting his weight onto his good foot and smacking the attacker’s knife-hand, effectively disarming him and sending the weapon skittering across the floor. The man grunted and did something Spider-Man didn’t really expect–instead of trying to hit him again, the man looked him up and down and tackled him. Spider-Man yelped in surprise as they crashed to the floor.

The man tried to hold him down and hit him, but Spider-Man easily threw him off, flipping over so that he had the man pinned. The guy tried to get up again with an angry grunt, but Spider-Man shot a web at the guy’s face, covering it completely.

The man let out a muffled yell, clawing at the sticky stuff covering his airways. It took him about ten seconds to finally get it off, gasping in gulps of air. Spider-Man started to get back to his feet when that tingling came back, alerting him to something on his right.

“Don’t. Move.” a voice behind him growled. Sighing, Spider-Man turned around to face it.

The blonde had his gun aimed at Spider-Man. He was too far away for Spider-Man to knock it out of his hand, but too close for him to be able to roll out of the way in time with his leg. He was stuck.

Very, very slowly, Spider-Man sat down on the ground next to Web-Face. “You don’t have to do this.”

The blonde raised a mocking eyebrow at him. “Deadpool’s gotta learn to pay his debts.”

“I get that, I really do, but–I–I don’t wanna die. I already got a giant gash in my leg, isn’t that enough?” Spider-Man offered, gesturing at the small pool of blood on the ground growing larger by the second.

The man pretended to consider. “Nope.”

Spider-Man rolled his eyes. “C’mon, man!”

He adjusted his grip on the gun, aimed it a little straighter at Spider-Man’s head, all while giving a smirk. The three injured men on the ground around Spider-Man all stopped moving at once, watching the scene before them.

Spider-Man found himself unable to stare anywhere except the barrel of the gun. He was going to die. This was it. He had survived being thrown off of buildings, fighting insane, billionaire supervillains, even survived _college,_ but four men in a crowded garage was going to be the end of him. He was going to die in the middle of fucking Indiana, because a crazy fucking mercenary left him in the middle of the night and _abandoned him._

This mission really was going to be the end of him. The end of the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

However, at that moment, he wasn’t Spider-Man anymore.

He was just Peter Benjamin Parker, sitting on the floor, bleeding all over the ground, and staring at the man about to end his life.

_See you on the other side, sweetheart._

Slowly, he closed his eyes and waited for it to be over.

Suddenly, the door slammed open.

Peter jumped, snapping his eyes open. He looked over to the door just in time to see none other than _Deadpool_ enter the shop, and pull a gun from his belt. Peter threw his hands over his head and ducked as Deadpool fired it without hesitation at the blonde, hitting him in the side of the head and sending him crumpling to the ground. Then, in quick succession, he fired at the other three, ending their lives with three pulls of the trigger. The gunshots echoed in Peter’s ears as he sat frozen to his spot on the floor.

Neither of them moved for almost a full minute. Peter wasn’t even sure Deadpool was breathing; the room was completely silent.

Finally, the moment broke; Deadpool suddenly snapped into action, rushing over to Peter and starting to run worried hands over him.

“Are you okay? Spidey, you’re bleeding,” Wade said, his voice sounding like a shout compared to the silence.

Peter let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He gasped air back in in rushed gulps, over and over, probably too fast. He grabbed onto Wade and hugged him as tightly as he could, pressing his face into Wade’s shoulder and _sobbing._

He wasn’t really sure how long he cried; he didn’t really care, and Wade didn’t seem to either. He held onto Peter just as tightly through the whole thing, rubbing his back and telling him over and over that _you’re alive, you’re okay, they’re dead,_ and _I’m so sorry._

After at least five minutes of filling up his mask with tears and snot, Peter finally loosened his grip, pulling back but refusing to let go entirely. Wade did the same, putting about a foot of space between their faces. Peter grabbed onto his arms and looked at his masked face. “You left.”

Wade looked away from his face.

Peter dug his fingers harder into Wade’s arms. “Wade. You left me. In Indiana _._ Why did it have to be fucking _Indiana?_ ” he said, exasperated.

Wade still didn’t look him in the face. “I had to,” he said quietly.

“You _had_ to?”

Wade winced, and took a few seconds to think of a response. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Peter gave him a flat look, then pointedly glanced down at his leg, which was still bleeding. “That worked out well.”

Wade followed his gaze and sighed. “I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to go after me. Why the hell did you wake up?”

Peter shrugged, brushing off the question.

Wade didn’t seem to believe that, but didn’t push. He turned his attention back to Peter’s injury. “How bad is that?”

“Unknown,” Peter admitted, “but it fucking hurts.”

“Sounds about right.” Wade agreed, then took his hands off of Peter’s shoulders to gently turn Peter’s leg, getting a better look at it. Peter hissed, both at the pain and at the slightly-gruesome sight of his wound. Wade let go with a huff. “I’ve got bandages in my bag outside,” he said, then immediately got up and started to walk outside.

Peter didn’t let him go; he flailed a bit and grabbed on to Wade, holding him in place. “Don’t leave me again,” he ordered, a bit frantic.

“I’m not going to let you bleed out onto the floor.” Wade said, gently prying Peter’s fingers off of his arms.  “Two seconds, I’ll be back,” he promised, then stood up and left.

Peter watched him go, held his breath until the door opened again ten seconds later and Wade walked back in with a duffel bag and sat down cross-legged next to Peter.

They were silent as Wade stitched up Peter’s gash and covered it the best he could; the only sounds in the room were Peter’s occasional noises of pain and Wade’s quick apologies.

Eventually, Wade finished, gave it a nod, and shoved everything back into his bag. “Alright, you’re good enough for now. Call Stark to come get you,” he ordered, like it was something simple.

Peter blinked. “What?”

Wade pulled his bag up onto his shoulder. “Call Stark to come get you. You’ll need better stitches.”

Peter used the car behind him to unsteadily get to his feet. “You’re leaving me again?”

Wade walked over to him, trying to calm him down. “Spidey, sit back down–”

“No!” Peter shouted, shoving him back. “Are you serious right now? I just almost _died,_ and you’re gonna leave me here?”

Wade ran a hand over his masked head. “Yes, I’m still leaving you!”

“Why?” Peter demanded.

“Because _you just almost died_!” Wade exclaimed. Suddenly, he closed the gap between them, grabbing onto Peter’s shoulders and digging his fingers in. “I’m dangerous, Spidey. Hell, knowing my track record, it’s a miracle you got away with just _that_ ,” he said darkly, gesturing at Peter’s leg. “and not a hole in your head like _them.”_ he swept a hand across the room, indicating the bodies around them.

Peter glared, not backing down. “That’s the reasoning you’re going with? That you’re _dangerous?_ Do you know how much dangerous shit I deal with every day?”

Wade gave him a dark look. “Not like this, Spidey. You almost _died_.”

Peter wanted to punch him. Or stab him. Or do a million other violent things to him. “I only almost _died_ because you left.” he pointed out angrily. “ I only lived because _you came back and saved me._ ”

Wade seemed to falter at that; his grip loosened, his stare lost some of its intensity through the mask. Something in his body language changed–he suddenly looks more defeated, slightly more slouched. Peter didn’t really know what to make of it.

Wade looked _sad._

Slowly, Peter brought his hands up to Wade’s face. Wade froze, going stiff all over like he expected Peter to hurt him. Peter decided to pretend for the moment that that wasn’t sad to watch.

“Do you want to leave me?”

Wade blinked at him, slightly confused and obviously distracted by Peter’s hands. “I have to.”

“But do you _want_ to?” Peter asked, running a thumb over one of Wade’s cheekbones.

Wade let out a shaky breath through his nose and looked down, leaning _just_ slightly into the touch. “I have to,” he repeated, quieter.

Peter leaned forward just a little bit, just enough to lightly press his forehead to Wade’s. “Wade.”

They stayed like that for a long time–just holding each other and breathing, calming down. Peter continued moving his hands just slightly, brushing his fingers over Wade’s cheekbones, temples, the top of his head. Wade leaned into all of it, and dully, Peter wondered how long it had been since anyone had touched Wade without wanting to hurt him.

“No,” Wade suddenly said, breaking through Peter’s thoughts and looking up. Peter gently put his hands down to Wade’s shoulders. “No, I don’t. But you’re going to get hurt.”

Peter considered. “I’m tougher than I look.”

Wade sighed at the ceiling, then looked back down to Peter. “You’re the actual worst, you know that? This is a _terrible_ idea.”

Peter chuckled. “Oh, definitely. But it’ll probably be fun.”

Wade groaned and pushed away from Peter, walking back to grab his bag. When he turned back around, he made a face at Peter. Peter raised an eyebrow at him, confused. Wade made a gesture at the car. “Well? Get in the car.”

Peter grinned, then looked down at Wade’s bag and frowned. “Uh, Wade?”

“What?” Wade responded, following Peter’s gaze with a hint of worry.

“My bag is on the roof.”

Wade blinked at him. “On the _roof_?”

Peter nodded, a little guilty. At the time, it had seemed logical.

Wade groaned and tossed his bag to Peter, along with the keys. “Open the garage and start the fuckin’ car, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Peter laughed and watched him go, then followed the instructions. He couldn’t figure out how to open the garage with a remote or button, so he ended up using a combination of his good foot and his hands to force it open, then got into the passenger’s seat of Beatrice and leaned over to start the engine. By some miracle, it worked.

Wade came in a minute later, tossing Peter’s bag in the back with an annoyed, dramatic huff and pulling the car out of the garage and heading onto the highway.

Peter fell asleep relatively quickly, listening to the hum of the car, the music of the radio, and Wade singing along under his breath.

Just before Peter went under, though, he stretched a hand out to the center console of the car, where Wade’s hand was sitting, tapping out rhythms to match the beat of the song. Peter quietly placed his hand over Wade’s wrist, rubbing a thumb against the bone there. He felt Wade go still for a moment, then turn his hand over, gently lacing his fingers with Peter’s.

Peter fell asleep just like that. Hand in Wade’s.

Completely safe.


	7. Hour Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter proposes a game for the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im....trying.
> 
> (also, all of the answers for the questions just came out of my head. If something is canonically different...I don't care)

Peter woke up six hours later–just barely in Iowa–when Wade shook his shoulder in the parking lot of a diner. Wade got out first, grabbing his bag and walking around the car to help Peter awkwardly limp into the place. Wade walked up to the counter, ordered a mountain of food to go, then came back to help Peter into the bathroom, locking the door behind them.

It took a bit of finagling, but they got Peter sitting on top of the counter, pants awkwardly around his knees. Wade had given him a rather haphazard bandage job before they’d left the auto shop, but he’d insisted that they change them every time they stopped.

Peter made a face as Wade peeled the bandages away, frowning at the coppery smell of blood.

“You alright, Spidey?” Wade asked. “Not a fan of blood?”

“Not when it’s my own.”

“Fair enough.” Wade said. “I’ll be fast.”

Peter nodded, then started to fiddle with a hangnail on his thumb while Wade got to work.

“Hey, Spidey?”

Peter looked up. “Wha– _fuck!_ ” he yelled when Wade unceremoniously dumped rubbing alcohol onto his leg. “What the fuck was that for?”

“To distract you. And clean your leg. Shit’s nasty.”

Peter gave him a look. Wade just grinned at him.

“So, I’m thinking,” Wade started, “we drive as far as we can today and tonight–”

“And as fast as we can,” Peter murmured, and Wade nodded in agreement, not stopping.

“–then with Magic Google Lady’s calculations, we should make it to California around dinner tomorrow. If we push it. And if no one tries to kill us again.”

“And after California?”

“Drop off the files and hightail it back. We’ve lost some time, but we should be able to make it back with some extra time. This is, what, day three?”

Peter shrugged; he’d honestly lost count. It felt like he’d graduated months ago–was it really less than a week ago? “No idea.”

“Well, we’ll just assume we’re right. Timelines are hard.”

Peter laughed, then winced a bit when Wade started stitching his wound. He looked down and watched with fascination as Wade stitched it far quicker–and far neater–than Peter had ever managed to.

“How did you learn how to do that?” he asked. “When’s the last time you even needed medical attention?”

Wade looked up, thinking. “Last time I needed stitches? Maybe ten years ago. It’s been awhile.”

“How’d you learn?”

Wade shrugged. “Military. I got hurt a lot, even before all this–” he gestured at himself, “–so I picked up the skill after a while. Come on, up,” he ordered, holding his hands out to help Peter get to his feet.

Peter’s paused, eyes widening in shock. “ _You_ were in the military?”

Wade chuckled. “A long time ago.”

“Is that–is that how you got your abilities?” Peter asked, taking Wade’s still-outstretched hands and getting shakily to his feet. He knew Wade wasn’t born with his powers–it was in his file for SHIELD–but Peter had always been a bit curious as to how someone got powers like Wade’s.

“No.”

Peter waited for an explanation as he zipped his pants and Wade packed up his things, but strangely, Wade didn’t give one. He just shouldered the bag and moved to unlock the door. It was a bit out of character for Wade; normally, he jumped at the opportunity to brag about his past to Peter, even if the stories were a bit exaggerated.

Peter remained leaning against the sink. “How did you get them?”

Wade snorted, leaning against the door. “Nah, Spidey, you don’t wanna hear about that.”

Peter cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you were a telepath.”

Wade huffed, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “C’mon, Spidey, we gotta get back on the road.”

Peter considered fighting him further, but decided against it and limped out of the bathroom. He’d have plenty of time to ask him about it later, anyway. Wade seemed to relax slightly as Peter walked by.

They walked back out into the diner and parked themselves a booth near the counter to wait for their order. Wade helped him sit down before he sat on the opposite side.

“So,” Peter began as soon as Wade was seated, “what did you do in the military?”

Wade groaned, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

Peter laughed. “What? I’m curious.”

“You ask too many questions,” Wade accused, pointing a finger at him.

Peter batted his hand away. “I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

“It is most definitely a bad thing. Especially when you don’t answer any that _I_ ask.”

“What? You don’t ask any!”

“Exactly. I don’t ask too many questions.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Wade.”

“See, that’s a perfect example!” Wade exclaimed, pointing again. “I still don’t know your name.”

“You _offered_ your name. I didn’t ask for it,” Peter pointed out.

Wade waved a hand. “Same thing.”

“It is not!”

“Is too!”

“How in the _world_ is it the same thing?” Peter demanded, laughing.

Wade thought about it for a minute, eventually settling on, “You ask too many questions.”

Peter laughed, Wade joining in after failing to keep a frown on his face. “You just don’t like it because you don’t like the answers,” Peter accused, taking his turn to point a finger in Wade’s face.

“You think I don’t like the answer to ‘what did I do in the military?’ Really?”

“Well–maybe not _that_ question,” Peter conceded.

“Then what question?” Wade asked, seeming genuinely curious.

Peter considered. “Why don’t you take off your mask? I’ve been with you for almost seventy-two hours and I’ve never seen you without it.”

Wade raised an eyebrow. “Why haven’t you told me your name?” he countered.

Peter glared. At this point, they’d come full circle, and he had a feeling Wade would just keep turning it back to him. He needed a different approach. “I have a new idea.”

Wade looked at him expectantly.

“Let’s play twenty questions,” Peter said.

"What?" Wade laughed.

“I’m serious. We can each have twenty questions to ask the other. Then neither one of us asks too many questions.”

Wade tilted his head. “And if you don’t want to answer?”

“Then we can each have...three passes.” Peter folded his hands on the table. “But you only get three, otherwise you have to answer. Truthfully,” he added when Wade opened his mouth. “Deal?”

Peter stuck a hand out between them.

Wade considered for a long moment, long enough that Peter’s arm was starting to get a bit tired, before he finally stuck his own hand out and grabbed Peter’s, shaking it twice.

“Deal.”

Peter grinned. “So, Wade Wilson, what was your job in the military?”

It was hard to tell, but Wade seemed to be grinning back, at least a little bit. “I was mostly a sniper, but I dabbled in other areas in the beginning.”

Peter tried to picture Wade waiting patiently, crouched in his hideout, before he was Deadpool. It was a bit difficult without knowing what Wade’s face looked like.

“How did you get your super-spidey powers?” Wade asked.

Peter smirked. This, he could answer. “I got bitten by a radioactive spider.”

The white eyes of Wade’s mask widened to the size of saucers as he slammed his hands down onto the table.

“YOU _WHAT?”_

* * *

Peter uses his fourth question to learn that Wade can speak twelve languages fluently, all of which he proves by translating random sentences Peter throws at him as the Magic Google Lady directs them across Iowa.

Wade uses his fourth question to discover that Peter’s favorite color is in fact not red or blue, but green, and his least favorite is orange.

“But why the red and blue on the suit?” Wade asked.

Peter shrugged. “I liked them when I was sixteen. Plus, they were the cheapest spandex colors at the fabric store. I went through maybe fifty of the damn things in my first year of Spider-Man.”

Wade whistled. “Damn, Spidey, you suck.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I was sixteen and no one taught me shit about fighting. I think making it out alive was honestly a win.”

Wade had laughed and looked out the window as they passed a sign welcoming them to Nebraska.

* * *

Wade uses his seventh question to learn that Peter’s favorite sitcom is _Brooklyn Nine-nine–_ and that his favorite character is Captain Holt–when they stop to get lunch at a drive-thru in Lincoln, Nebraska _._ He also informs Wade that his favorite would be Rosa Diaz.

Peter uses his seventh to ask Wade if he’s ever accidentally killed the wrong mark on a job, only half-jokingly, but realizes it’s the wrong question when Wade looked away from him.

“Pass,” Wade said immediately, hands tightening slightly on the steering wheel as he took the next exit.

“Oh.” Peter said, a bit surprised. He paused, trying to think of a different question, one with a bit less intensity. “What’s your favorite Pokémon?”

Wade looked over at him, and though Peter couldn’t see his face, he had a feeling his expression was judgemental when he said, “You play _Pokémon_?”

“...Maybe.”

“Oh my god, how old are you?” Wade exclaimed, laughing.

“Brooklyn has a lot of Pokéstops!” Peter defended, crossing his arms. It only made Wade laugh harder. Peter smacked him. “Stop laughing!”

“Okay, okay!” Wade said, batting Peter’s hand away. “My favorite is–um...Pikachu!”

Peter raised a judgemental eyebrow. “Is that the only one you know?”

“No,” Wade lied. “I happen to like his little...‘pika pika’ noises. Quality noises.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “You’re the worst.”

“No, a grown man playing Pokémon is the worst.”

“IT’S A POPULAR GAME, WADE.”

“Maybe if they had a movie it’d be better. Oh! I can play Pikachu!”

Peter glared at him. “I hate you.”

* * *

 ****They cross into Colorado when Wade is asking question number thirteen. Peter really didn’t think the game would go on so long, but Wade seemed to enjoy drawing out his answers and making Peter explain his in-depth. Each round of questions took them almost twenty minutes.

“Have you ever smoked weed?” Wade asked as they passed an advertisement for it.

Peter snorted. “Yes. I went to college in New York, it was hard not to.”

“Wait, you went to college?”

Peter nodded.

Wade looked him over. “When did you graduate? You look like you’re sixteen.”

“Okay, first, rude,” Peter said flatly, “and second, I graduated–four days ago?”

Wade blinked at him. “And _this_ is how you decided to celebrate?” he said a moment later, gesturing at the car around them, himself, and Peter’s various injuries, in that order.

Peter sighed. “I–it’s a long story. But yes.”

“What happened? Was Spider-Man not enough?” Wade joked.

Despite Wade’s lighthearted tone, it hit a little too close to home. Peter’s smile faded. “I, um–pass,” he said, using his first one.

Wade looked over. “Shit, Spidey, I didn’t mean to–”

Peter waved it off. “It’s fine, Wade. Got another question?”

Wade didn’t look convinced, and looked like he might apologize again, but after a moment, he gave up and asked, “What’s the heaviest thing you’ve ever lifted?”

Peter thought about it. “A city bus, probably.”

Wade whistled, impressed. “That’s hot.”

Peter snorted. “Sure it is.”

“Oh, it is. Gimme one bus bench-press, I’ll be good to _go._ ”

“Oh my god.” Peter laughed. “You have no shame, do you?”

“Lemme check.” Wade said, then started to pat himself down. “Nope.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Have you ever actually slept with a man? Or is this flirting just confident nonsense?”

“Have _you_ ever slept with a man?” Wade fired back.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “I asked you first.”

“Yes, I have.” Wade answered, looking Peter in the eye. “Have you?”

“Yes,” Peter admitted. He’d had a bit of a fling the summer between his sophomore and junior year of college, but it hadn’t gone anywhere. He shifted in his seat, feeling a bit flustered under Wade’s gaze. “Have you ever slept with a woman? Or is it just guys for you?”

Wade snorted. “With this face, I can’t afford to discriminate, Spidey.”

“Well I wouldn’t know, would I?” Peter said, smirking. Wade glared at him, but wasn’t able to hold it for very long.

“What about you? You had a girlfriend for a while, didn’t you?” Wade asked, and Peter was slightly grateful that he didn’t use her name.

Peter hesitated. He considered using his second to avoid the topic, but eventually decided against it. “Yeah, I did. Throughout most of high school.”

“Have you dated anyone since?”

Peter shook his head. “Not really, no. Nothing that lasted.”

“Well, that’s bullshit,” Wade scoffed.

“What?”

“You’re a total catch.” Wade said, gesturing at him. “I mean, look at you. Are fancy college people _blind_?”

Peter laughed, surprised, and felt his cheeks warm at the compliment. “I think the problem was more on my end than theirs, Wade. I was busy with school and Spider-Man, anyway. I didn’t have the time.”

“ _Still._ ” Wade said, still sounding bewildered. “You at least got some ass, right?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Yes, I did. Not often, but I did.”

“Well, thank god for that. And lucky them.” Wade added.

Peter just groaned and put his face into his hands. “Oh my god.”

* * *

They take a break after question fifteen to pull over and switch spots when Wade nearly falls asleep at the wheel around three in the afternoon. Peter starts driving as Wade sleeps in the back seat, using one of his hoodies as a pillow and sprawling out as far as he can.

He sleeps for almost six hours while Peter pushes them through the rest of Colorado as the sun goes down.

* * *

Wade–once he wakes up and crawls back into the front seat while Peter tries desperately to keep the car on the road–starts the game up again and uses his sixteenth question to learn that Peter majored in biochemical engineering and minored in computer science. Peter uses his to discover that Wade keeps at least two knives on him at all times, and at that moment, he has six, all of which he shows Peter and describes in detail.

“I’ve still got the one you left for me,” Peter admitted, pulling it out of his back pocket. “Did you carve the spiderwebs yourself?”

“I did,” Wade said, taking the knife from him and spinning it in his hand. “It took for _ever,_ but I think it was worth it.”

“Do you...want it back?” Peter asked.

“Nah, Spidey, it was a present,” Wade flipped it closed and handed it back.

Peter wouldn’t admit it to him, but he was secretly glad to put it back in his pocket.

* * *

“What’s your middle name?” Wade asked, using his eighteenth question and taking a bite of his burger they’d picked up for an eleven-o’clock dinner. They’d stopped there to stretch their legs and change clothes,  but Wade insisted that they get the food to go. “Or is that too much?”

Peter considered. If he said no, it’d be his third pass–he’d used one on Wade’s question on why he’d come on the trip, and another when Wade had asked how big his dick was. He’d also been rather tempted to throw Wade out of the car for that one.

But when he thought about it, a middle name wasn’t so bad. “Benjamin.”

“Benjamin.” Wade repeated with a thoughtful hum. “I like it.”

“Thanks,” Peter replied, fishing around in their bag for another order of fries.

“Is it a family name?”

Peter nodded. “After my uncle.”

“Mine’s Winston. Which I’m pretty sure isn’t a family name.”

Peter frowned. “Wade Winston Wilson? Your initials are ‘WWW’?

Wade Winston Wilson sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. I’m not sure if my parents realized what they’d done.”

“That’s _awful.”_ Peter laughed.

“It is. Does this mean I can call you Ben?” Wade asked, wiping his hand off on his sweatpants and reaching out for another burger.

“Absolutely not,” Peter said, handing it to him after a moment of digging around.

“Benny? Benji? Benjamin Button?”

“No, no, and no. ‘Spidey’ works just fine,” Peter replied. “Do you have any siblings?”

“Not that I’m aware of. You?”

“Nope.”

“I guess we’re both weird only children then.”

Peter snorted. “You, maybe.”

“Okay, _rude._ ” Wade said, shoving a hand in Peter’s face. Peter yelped, laughing, and pushed it away. “You’re totally a weird only child. You’re _Spider-Man.”_

“Yeah, and you’re _Deadpool._ I think you’re definitely the weirder one.”

“Name one weird thing I’ve ever–wait, no, don’t do that–” Wade cut himself off as Peter burst out laughing.

“Name one thing? _Only_ one thing?” Peter managed through his laughter.

Wade groaned. “Okay, maybe I set the bar too low.”

“ _Maybe?_ ”

“Okay, way too low,” Wade laughed.

Peter took a breath, trying to calm down his laughter. “You’re the weirder one.”

“Oh, whatever.” Wade grumbled. “Pass me some fries, dickhead.”

* * *

It’s around two in the morning when they cross into Nevada. Peter fell asleep around midnight after trying to yawn his way through the rest of the game, but after he and Wade got into a half-hour tangent over weird only-children stereotypes, Wade had just laughed at him and told him to go to sleep.

An hour later, he gently shook Peter’s shoulder, waking him up.

“Wha–” Peter grumbled, stretching and blinking his eyes open. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“Look,” Wade pointed out the window.

Peter sat up, struggling a bit, and squinted out the window. Just barely lit from their headlights, he could see the sign:

_Welcome to California._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was a bit of a filler chapter, and not super worth the wait, but I tried to make up for it by adding in lots of personal fluff and a Detective Pikachu reference.
> 
> Expect a lot of plot next chapter.


	8. Hour Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to California.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgive me for my pacing sins but I had to cut this off bc it was getting so long so HAVE A CHAPTER ANYWAY

“So, what exactly is the plan today?” Peter asked around a bite of pancake. “Other than like, not dying.”

Wade drummed his fingers on the table across from Peter. It was about five in the morning, and after about five minutes of Peter yelling at Wade that he wanted to be out of the car and eat real food, Wade had caved and taken them to a homey-feeling diner and placed them in a booth in the back. “We’re about an hour out from the drop-off address. And since you’re a stubborn asshole who won’t let me leave you in a motel–” he gave Peter a pointed look, who in turn grinned back, “–you can hide while I deal with everything else, like last time.”

“But without a car chase,” Peter added. “Or a firefight.”

“Well, we’ll hope.”

Peter snorted into his glass of orange juice.

* * *

They finished their meal, paid, and then an hour later (plus ten minutes to get gas and change into their hero gear), Beatrice was parked in front of a small, brick, very-similar-to-the-New-York-building building. 

“It’s like they copied and pasted the building,” Peter said, looking out the window.

“They really did,” Wade agreed, leaning completely over Peter’s lap to get a better look, putting his hand on Peter’s thigh for balance.

Peter looked down at him. “Got a good view down there?”

“Nah, but I got a good feel,” Wade responded, leaning back and hopping out of the car before Peter could say anything back.

Peter rolled his eyes, slipped his mask on, and hopped out on his side. He stretched his arms above his head and rolled his head around a bit—he couldn’t wait until he was home and didn’t have to spend all his time in a car.

He looked at their surroundings for a moment, glancing at each building on the street before he pointed to an apartment complex across the street, slightly taller than the building Wade was about to walk into. Perfect. “I’ll wait up there.”

Wade followed his gaze and nodded. “If I’m not out in fifteen minutes, take the car and leave,” he said, holding out the keys for Peter to take.

Peter slowly accepted and pocketed them. He didn’t want to agree to that, but Wade wouldn’t go in otherwise. “Alright.”

“Still got the knife?”

“I don’t use knives,” Peter pulled the knife out of his pocket flipped it, and put it back, “but yes, I have it.”

Satisfied that Peter had both, Wade dramatically shooed him off towards the apartment building. Peter rolled his eyes at the motion, but obeyed, crossing the street and attaching a web to the fire escape ladder, yanking it down. It took him a minute or so to climb all the way to the top. He walked across the roof to give a thumbs-up to Wade, who blew him a kiss back before heading up the door. 

Spider-Man sat down behind the ledge of the roof—low to the ground to make himself smaller and less noticeable—and flipped his hood up. He wasn’t quite out of sight–he still had to be able to see the building, therefore, the building could still see him, if it had eyes–but it was good enough. 

Wade disappeared into the building about two minutes after he knocked on the door. The second the door closed behind him, Spider-Man started the clock.

* * *

**** At three minutes, the door opened again, revealing more guys in suits—once again  _ copied and pasted  _ from the New York location—who walked out to Beatrice and popped the trunk before beginning to remove the boxes from the back. Spider-Man did not miss the fact that Wade was not among them.

At five minutes, they’d taken two trips to retrieve everything, and only one suit remained outside, leaning against Beatrice and looking out into the street. Spider-Man had to duck behind the ledge of the roof every time he looked up, which quickly got very annoying.

At nine minutes, the lookout still hadn’t gone back inside, and no one else had come out. It was making keeping watch much harder.

At twelve minutes, Wade was still inside; Spider-Man was starting to get fidgety and cramped in his spot. If the clock hit fifteen minutes, he was supposed to take Beatrice and go, but now there was a watchdog guarding her—a watchdog who wasn’t supposed to know Spider-Man had come along for the ride.

At thirteen minutes, Spider-Man had started to form a plan to take out the lookout, start the car, and get out of there before anyone noticed something had happened. His plan didn’t involve taking Deadpool with him, which left a strange, dark feeling in Spider-Man’s chest he was trying desperately to ignore.

At fourteen minutes, the sharp sound of gunfire rang out from inside the building. Spider-Man ducked behind the ledge for a moment before he tentatively poked his head up. The lookout had heard it, too; he’d retrieved a gun from inside his jacket and aimed it at the door.

Spider-Man waited for more gunfire, or maybe for Wade to come kicking and screaming through a window, guns ablazing. Neither he nor the lookout moved for almost a full minute. 

Nothing happened. No more gunfire, no movement at the door, no sounds coming from the radio attached to the lookout’s belt. Nothing. The dark feeling in his chest grew stronger. 

It couldn’t really be denied—no matter who had fired in the building, Deadpool was in some kind of danger, and he was facing it alone. Orders or no orders, Spider-Man wasn’t a hero who left someone behind.

At fifteen minutes, Spider-Man was supposed to swing down, take out the lookout, start the car, and leave before anyone noticed that he was there—and leave Deadpool behind.

At fifteen minutes, Spider-Man swung down to the street, took out the lookout, webbed him to the sidewalk, stole his keycard and radio, used the keycard to open the surprisingly thick glass door, and went in after Deadpool.

Deadpool was going to  _ murder _ him for this.

* * *

The lobby was empty when Spider-Man walked in—void of both people and furniture. The only thing in the room was a desk built into the floor. It was obviously for some kind of secretary, but there wasn’t even a chair. 

There was, however, a security camera in the back corner, which Spider-Man covered with webbing before heading down the hallway that took him deeper into the place. He found two more cameras in the hall, taking them out as he slowly made his way through. Suspiciously, most of the doors were open; all of the rooms lacked decoration and inhabitants. Each had only one piece of furniture and a strange, ugly wood paneling on the walls. He took out the cameras in each room—one in the back left corner of each room, except for the last door on the right, which had one in the back right—until he arrived at the end of the hallway where a metal closed door sat with a keycard scanner.

As he approached, the door lit up his spider-senses like a holiday tree. He couldn’t see or hear anything beyond the door, but it made his hair stand on end like he’d been shocked. He crept closer and slowly pressed his ear up to the metal. Very, very faintly, he could hear a quiet, rhythmic beeping.

It was a bomb.

Spider-Man jerked back away from the door, bolting into the nearest empty room. He ducked into the doorway and waited for it to go off, hoping he was far enough.

He waited for two minutes. Then three. Then four. Nothing happened. Spider-Man slowly poked his head out and looked at the door.

Had he been wrong? Had he just been hearing the security system’s mechanics? Or was the timer on the bomb not yet over? Was it faulty? If he opened the door, would he just find a noisemaker? No, his spider-senses wouldn’t have gone off for that. 

Spider-Man huffed. He couldn’t go back up to the door again; it was far too risky. He looked around the room he was in, hoping something would inspire an idea. However, he was the only thing in the room aside from one metal chair. Not particularly inspiring. 

The only other thing there was the security camera with the webbing over the lens, but that wasn’t anything. All that did was remind him that he’d stopped whoever was on the other side from seeing him.

_All that did was remind him that whoever was on the other side_ _couldn’t see him._

Spider-Man pulled the keycard out of his pocket, looking down at it in his hand. He had to admit—if this is what he thought it was, it was clever. It was a good way to take out anyone who broke in. An intruder gets a keycard, sees the empty rooms, uses the keycard on the back door, and gets blown to pieces. 

The bomb wasn’t set on a timer. That was too risky. In order for it to work effectively they’d have to know how fast an intruder was going through the place, know when they’d reach the door. But Spider-Man had webbed each camera immediately, and he’d staggered his time looking through each room. It’d be too hard to time out, so if they were smart, they wouldn’t have the bomb go off on a  _ timer— _ they’d have it go off on a  _ trigger.  _

A trigger like the scanning of a keycard on the  _ wrong _ door.

“Which means there’s a real entrance somewhere else,” Spider-Man muttered, spinning the keycard and putting it back into his pocket.

He quickly went back to the lobby—looking out the window and confirming that the lookout was still solidly webbed to the sidewalk—and started to search it more thoroughly. Now he knew what he was looking for. 

The lobby, however, proved useless, so he moved on to looking in each of the empty rooms down the hall. The first room was empty, save for the camera on the left and a table pushed up against the wall that Peter spent probably too long investigating. 

Halfway through his searching of the second room, more gunfire rang out from behind him, across the hall. Spider-Man flinched, a bit unnecessarily. It was much closer than last time, but still sounded muffled and far away. Spider-Man slowly made his way across the hall.

This room, unlike the others, had a camera on the right instead of on the left. Bingo.

“One of these things is not like the others,” Spider-Man sang softly, walking in. The only furniture it contained was a desk pushed up against the far wall—no chair. He opened up the first drawer, not surprised when it was empty. He ran his hand along the top of the inside, feeling around until he felt it—a switch. It made a very satisfying click when flipped. 

The top of the desk flipped up, like the popping of a car hood. Spider-Man carefully grabbed the edge and lifted it all the way up, revealing another scanner inside the desk. A moment and a quick scan later, a chunk of horribly unattractive wood paneling to Spider-Man’s left gave way to reveal an elevator.

“Turner, confirm entrance,” his stolen radio suddenly barked.

Spider-Man scrambled to get it out of his pocket and hit the proper buttons. “Confirm,” he said awkwardly, trying to make his voice sound like a Bad Guy Voice. He hoped it was the right thing to say.

The woman on the other end didn’t say anything else, but Spider-Man wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. He climbed into the elevator anyway before it closed, discovering that it only had access to five floors—all sublevels.

Considering that he’d been able to hear the gunfire from outside across the street, and it had been loud a few minutes ago, Deadpool couldn’t have been too far from the surface. The elevator closed its doors and started descending to sublevel A.

When it opened, Spider-Man wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but an ominous, dimly-lit concrete hallway was pretty damn close to what he’d pictured in his head.

He sighed and stepped out anyway, flipping up his hood and webbing each camera he saw on the way.

The first door he approached was shut and locked. It didn’t have a scanner, and the lookout hadn’t had any keys on him. It did, however, have a turning handle, so Spider-Man gripped it and twisted, using his strength until it broke and he pushed the door open.

The three scientists opening the boxes of files all gave him very confused looks when he walked in. They were all working around one large central table, with all of the files spread out between them. All had scanners of some kind, and had made it through a good portion of the files. Spider-Man gave them a wave.

“Hello, evil scientists. Whatcha’ got there?” he asked, putting his hands on his hips.

The one closest to him reached for her radio. 

“Oh, a radio!” Spider-Man shot a web and yanked it out of her hand, sending it skittering to the floor. “Those are always fun.”

The man to her left her went for his gun instead. Spider-Man ducked as he fired off a few rounds, ducking and rolling under the table for cover. He shifted his weight to his good leg and used his strength to tip the table from underneath; it managed to take out one bad guy as it toppled over onto its side and sent files  _ everywhere.  _

He leapt over the edge, landing neatly on his feet. The one with his gun out took aim again; Spider-Man pushed the man’s arm to the side with his left hand, and landed a hard punch to his chest with his right. The man crumpled to the ground and Spider-Man kicked his gun far away from him and webbed him to the ground.

His spidey-senses alerted him to a threat from behind. He whipped around, ducking just in time to dodge a punch from the third scientist. She was a bit faster than the others, but not as fast as Spider-Man. She aimed a punch at his face, missing by an inch, and Spider-Man landed a hard kick to her gut. She flew across the room, hitting the wall with a thud and falling to the ground. He webbed her down quickly, then webbed the radio star to the ground, even if it seemed a bit tedious. She was unconscious after being hit and pinned down by a rather large piece of metal.

Once they were all taken care of, Spider-Man took a closer look at the mess around him. Now scattered all over the floor were papers, folders, photographs, and even a few USB drives, which Spider-Man found ironic. He bent down and picked up the file under his left foot. It wasn’t labeled on the outside, which he found odd, but he opened it up nonetheless.

Inside, it was a profile.

_ Name: Luke Cage _

The file listed his address, affiliates, job, all sorts of things, including one fact in particular that caught Spider-Man’s eye:

_ Abilities: Impenetrable skin, possibly enhanced strength, combat training. _

In the back of the folder, there were maybe ten or so photos of the guy; in his house, with what looked like a girlfriend, walking down the street. At the very end, there was a sheet labeled  _ Tactical,  _ and at the bottom of that, one of the most daunting footnotes Spider-Man had ever seen.

_ Recommend gas or ingested poison, as most close-combat weapons are ineffective. _

Spider-Man read the page over twice, making sure he was reading what he thought he was reading. Making  _ triple  _ sure that he was reading instructions on how to  _ murder  _ a superhero.

Slowly, he bent down to pick up another file. He flipped through it; it was the same, this time for Johnny Storm—who Spider-Man actually  _ knew,  _ who he’d actually  _ worked with  _ before. 

Almost frantically, he started to pick up more and more files. They were all the same. Matt Murdock,  _ Daredevil.  _ Scott Summers,  _ Cyclops.  _ Wanda Maximoff,  _ Scarlet Witch.  _ Some were people he knew, most weren’t. Spider-Man started to feel sick. He started to feel angry. He started to feel like burning this place to the ground.

Spider-Man suddenly heard more gunfire, further down the hall, followed by the distant sound of shouting. He was sharply yanked from the trance the files had pulled him into, and sharply reminded of why he’d come in here in the first place. 

He’d come in to save Deadpool, the whole reason they were here, and the reason why he’d been dragged across the country to deliver what appeared to be  _ murder files  _ to quite possibly one of the most obviously-evil groups Spider-Man had come across.

There was no way Deadpool hadn’t noticed. No way he hadn’t taken a glimpse at what was in the trunk for the forty-three hours they were in the car. Spider-Man had seen how meticulous he was, even if he put on an act to hide it. Deadpool  _ had  _ to know.

Spider-Man felt the anger in his chest start to grow, turn into something much closer to betrayal. He let the files fall from his hands, fluttering to the floor, and stalked out of the room, giving each pinned scientist another round of webbing for good measure.

He made it back into the hall and went much faster this time, heading towards the sounds of fighting and not stopping for anything else. He passed labs, office spaces, what looked like a medical center; instead of fighting the inhabitants, he pulled the doors shut, broke the handles off, and put a rather large amount of webbing on them to seal them shut.

The sounds grew louder as Spider-Man drew closer. There was no longer gunfire, but instead just the sounds of shouting and fighting. He was getting close enough to pick out voices and make out words.

When he rounded the next corner, he saw an open door with light and violence flooding out of it. It was immediately obvious that this was where they had taken Deadpool; Spider-Man pressed himself up against the wall just outside the door frame and started to hear his voice.

“I came  _ alone,”  _ Deadpool growled, in a tone of voice Spider-man had never heard before.

Spider-man froze, listening closer.

“See, we know that’s not true, Deadpool,” a female voice replied. Spider-Man could hear her heels clicking on the hard floor. “You were seen with another man. You had two bags in your car— _ our  _ car, that we allowed you to borrow—and we saw him on our cameras when you arrived at this building today. There’s no use denying it, and once we finish going through what you’ve brought us, we’ll know who it is. Why not speed up the process and tell us his name?”

“ _ I. Came. Alone,”  _ Deadpool repeated.

A violent sound followed; they’d punched Deadpool, or something similar.

“Stop lying,” the other voice hissed.

“Stop being such a bitch,” Deadpool spat back.

Spider-Man swore as they hit him again.

“Rudeness won’t get you anywhere, Deadpool. We’re going to find your little friend, and we’re going to kill him, just like we’re going to kill you. You put up a good fight, but it’s over.”

The heel-clicks began to draw closer to the door. The woman was going to leave the room. And see Spider-Man, casually chilling in the hall. He had to hide, and fast.

Spider-Man looked around frantically, searching for a closet to magically appear that he could hide in. She’d be out in seconds and he had nowhere to go.

Then, just before they left the room, the clicks stopped.

“He’s closer than you think, Deadpool. Would you like to say goodbye when we find him?”

“Fuck  _ off, _ ” came Deadpool’s response.

The clicks started up again, this time continuing all the way into the hallway. A woman with a dark pantsuit and darker hair came out into the hall, making her way down the same way Spider-Man had come in. She was followed by a man who Spider-Man presumed to be her bodyguard. His hands were bloody.

By some miracle, they didn’t see Spider-Man, who had crawled up the wall, over the door frame, and had squished himself into the dark corner as far from the door as possible. He waited for a minute, making sure she wasn’t coming back, before he gently dropped to the ground and headed towards the door.

As he approached, his spidey-senses alerted him of a threat beyond the other side. Gently, he got close to the door and tapped his knuckles against the frame, loud enough to be heard.

As expected, footsteps began to near the door. Spider-Man moved to sit  _ above  _ the door, waited for the guy to walk out, then dropped on him, landing a punch to his head hard enough to knock him out cold.

From behind him, he heard a gasp and a swear. He turned around, ready to go release Deadpool, but when he turned, he froze.

The room had blood  _ everywhere.  _ There were three bodies pushed up against the back wall, littered with bullet holes and carelessly tossed aside. Two of the lights had been broken. One of the two large tables had been knocked over; the other was covered in Deadpool’s large array of weaponry. However, that wasn’t what stopped Spider-Man in his tracks.

What stopped him short was the man tied to the chair in the middle of the room. He was covered in blood. His breathing sounded ragged, like something had gone wrong in his chest. His suit was torn in several places and bloodstained. Deadpool looked rough, but Spider-Man had seen that all before.

What he hadn’t seen, however, was the way Deadpool looked back at him, looked straight into his eyes. No barrier. No comical whites to dull the power of his gaze. It was just his  _ face,  _ the face he’d tried to hide from Spider-Man and from Peter for all these hours, the face Spider-Man had only caught glimpses of this entire time.

Deadpool was sitting in the middle of the room, wounded, tied to a chair, covered in blood. 

Without his mask.

**Author's Note:**

> hooooooooo boy here we go
> 
> come talk to me on tumblr! (@lowkey-avenger)


End file.
